“He went to the Caesarean embassy afterward?” Darame asked softly, leaning back in her seat and absently toying with a long silver curl.
“Yes, Serae,” Jude replied. “I took the liberty of contacting our plant there. The Caesarean went to request a travel visa. He was told it would take a minimum of ten days.”
“Any idea how he took the news?” Darame kept her gaze on the empty vial laying before her on the table. It was a fluke that Jude happened to see Garth Kristinsson leaving his hostel. Only trained observation could have brought Darame the next piece of news — that the youth had been corpse-white in color and wholly preoccupied with an errand. On impulse, Jude had followed Kristinsson, and had been led to several selected bins at the recycling center. Once she had confirmed that Garth was entering the embassy, Jude had returned to the center. The plastics belt had already destroyed whatever had been dropped upon it, and the incinerator ran constantly, but the glass bins were full to overflowing — an incriminating item perched precariously at the bottom of the chute.
Even more fortunate was the tiny half-moon lightly brushed on the container’s surface — it matched Kristinsson’s right third finger.
So.... Pick him up as a fride user? No. Kristinsson was not a user. Fride lingered a long time; his planetfall blood work would have shown traces of the drug. A new vice, picked up from the hordes who attended Dielaan’s parties? Probably not... even Rex Dielaan preferred not to associate with fride users. He certainly would not let a known user sleep with his cousin — fride damaged chromosomes as well as nerves.
“Why would someone want to incriminate Kristinsson?” she murmured.
“I left Marc on watch, Serae,” Jude said pleasantly, her square, dark face set in the expressionless on-duty guaard mode. “If we have some luck, we will discover that answer.”
“Yes, watch him,” Darame agreed, indicating that Jude could remove the vial. “And put that in a safe place. It may be all the evidence we ever have against Kristinsson... and sometime we may need something against him.”
Nodding her understanding, Jude lifted the vial with a pair of tongs and sealed it in a sheer bag. By the time Darame thought to look up again, the big woman had disappeared.
Kristinsson... what was that young man up to? And I was vain enough to think it concerned me, she thought ruefully. Obviously he has foes enough without pursuing ancient business. Still, he had searched for her a hundred years. Waiting until the time is ripe to ask me something? Or was his plan more devious than that... and already implemented?
Idly reaching to one side, Darame tapped the membrane before her screen and brought up the infonet. Touching the remote again brought her the news channel. Carefully she began scrolling through recent articles. Give it two, three days... even the best free-traders needed some time to work —
Darame straightened in her chair. Garth Kristinsson was not a free-trader, not as Darame used the word. The son of free-traders, he was at least an apprentice... but not a free-trader. I have been thinking of him as trained. Therefore, I have overestimated his potential for mayhem... and underestimated his potential for mischief. She continued scanning the net, looking for anything that might be pointed at her.
Nothing interesting; not at all. The explosion had driven everything else off the infonet. No intriguing thefts, no innuendos, no.... Her eye stopped at a small notice. Earlier that day, a student at the university had been interviewed about the blast by the press corps. Peter’s Keys, wasn’t there enough information floating around? They had to manuf — Darame began reading in earnest. The student was studying explosives, researching better compounds for the mining industry... he claimed that the blast wasn’t large enough to account for the amount of antimatter usually kept on-planet.
Should have found a prizewinner to say it, she thought idly, as she reached to increase the speed of the scan. No headlines for students....
Something crystallized in her mind, and Darame tilted her chair away from the screen. Any antimatter in the vicinity would have blown....
You were looking for theft that might affect you. A slow smile crept across her lips. Even as the thought was occurring to her, Darame was switching to vid and entering the code for Halsey’s retreat.
“The Atarae for Halsey, if he is available,” she said to the still picture which accompanied an audio recording.
Abruptly the picture of the mountains disappeared, and Halsey’s cheerful countenance filled the screen. “Darame! How lovely! Is this business or pleasure?”
“It be always a pleasure, dear,” she said gently in Gavrielian. “Tell all — be there a plan to seize the antimatter before?”
Halsey’s thin eyebrows lifted visibly, but he responded, and in the same tongue. “Be not clear with me before. Why?”
“Connections, connections,” she murmured, indicating by the repeated word a drop into free-trader cant. “Connections” meant free-associating.
“You be looking for work?” This was very amused — he was asking: Do you want in on such a plan?
Burbling with laughter, Darame shook her head. “No. Suspect it be before... and I be not welcome.”
The eyebrows drew together thoughtfully, and then relaxed. “Post me.” Winking once, Halsey cut the signal.
Of course I’ll keep you posted, my friend... just as soon as I find anything worth sharing. Tapping her fingernails against the frame of the screen membrane, Darame considered her next move. Either Mailan or Sheel —
Before she could reach to re-activate the vid, a sweet chime announced an incoming call. “Yes?” Realizing she had spoken in Gavrielian, Darame repeated the word in Nualan.
Mailan’s triangular face and huge gray eyes arrested her attention. “The subject is moving,” she said without preamble.
“Where?”
“Methplane terminal.”
Darame felt her own eyebrows arch at the words. So, neither tourist nor conspirator — Garth Kristinsson needed to leave Amura in a hurry. A visa would have smoothed the way, but his spacer skills would get him out of town. To where? “Do not lose him. I will be there as soon as possible.” Before Mailan could reply Darame terminated the call.
Moving to her cedar wardrobe, Darame pulled out a small waterproof bakit and immediately began throwing clothing into it. Both water and desert gear, cold and hot extremes — The bottom drawer of the dresser produced the small bag she always kept packed for trips. It contained both items no woman enjoyed being without, and numerous energy bars and vitamin supplements. But would it fit into her bakit? Yes.
Wear boots, take sandals, something for nausea (she had felt queasy since the meal at sext)... on impulse she threw in a delicate, black syluan dress. Who knew what company she was going to be keeping?
Was there time to call Sheel and tell him — what? That she was going to shadow a suspected thief, and that she had no idea if it meant a trip to the airfield or a trip to the ends of the continent? No time even to coin a message. Returning to the dresser, she opened the top drawer and reached beneath it. A familiar twitching sensation as the pressure-sensitive latch read her print, and then the quartz pentimento dropped into her hand. Releasing the drawer, she let it slide shut as she coiled the silver chain.
Artistically she arranged the pendant on the table by Sheel’s favorite chair. Once he had commented on her simple teardrop necklace — only once... he had never asked again. Perhaps her response had surprised him. “It is the most precious material thing I possess,”she had told him.
Moving back into her sitting room, her fingers trailed near the floating images of several holos. Candids, chronicling the people most important to her; Sheel had been caught glancing over his shoulder, that startling dimple beginning to pull at one corner of his wide mouth; Ardal concentrating, his thin face as carved as his father’s; the twins piled in a heap on top of herself, Caolan the picture of Darame’s father with his black hair and wicked grin — only the one amber iris contrasted his dreamy Irish face — while Sabrann hinted at her mother’s checkered past. Who would have expected her black hair to have silver trickling through it? A change on the genetic level... yet they had a Nualan’s natural immunity to Nualan radiation, and wasn’t that just as uncanny? Sabrann, too, had one black iris; the other was azure blue, a legacy from her mother’s mother’s people. Avis and Stephanie, one of Sheel’s mother Riva — Tiny figures frozen in time, littering her desk.
Whirling, Darame hurried to fetch the last of her equipment. Twisting her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, she slid her sheathed stiletto through it. Secure hair, decorative clasp... and deadly weapon. Flexing her fingers, she checked to be sure the blade would slide free with its usual speed. Then she lifted a woolen sweater and removed her other weapon, carefully drawing it to examine its edges.
As if she needed to check — this blade was one thing she never neglected. The Nualans universally called this design a cat knife, but in truth it was a dagger, its sides symmetrical and equally sharp. You represent Nuala, she told it silently for the thousandth time. Darame held in her hand a guaard regulation issue “cat,” complete with a solid wadeyo wood handle carved to her personal grip. The Trinity alone knew what made up the alloy of the blade. Platinum and even trinium were involved, and of course the metal was doped to protect it from the hungry irradiated microbes which flitted through Nuala’s atmosphere. An extremely valuable weapon, and beyond price — only guaard possessed them. They could not be bought, or traded for, although visual replicas existed. When a guaard died of age or illness, the blade went on the wall of the family homestead, honored for generations. If a guaard died in the line of duty, the blade was kept by the guaard. And if a guaard died to save an individual life, that individual kept the blade.
Sheel had Fion’s blade, in an unbreakable case. He never spoke of it.
Only guaard. And one tiny off-worlder. Through channels, Darame had learned that every active and retired guaard had agreed to her receiving the blade. No other Atare, by blood or marriage, had ever been given one. Darame still wasn’t sure why she had been so honored. Perhaps it was the hours and hours of practice she had put in, patiently strengthening her wrists, working up to the weight of the seventeen centimeter blade. Perhaps it was because she so obviously respected and loved the sleek things.
Perhaps it was because, when in the presence of former Captain Dirk’s cat knife, shortly after the events which had sealed her future on Nuala, Darame had tried (futilely) to snap the blade.
Only a moment of consideration, her fingers caressing the sleek, reddish wood. Then she carefully strapped the blade to her right calf, making sure a slight flex at the knee parted material and gave her access to the weapon.
Hoisting the bakit over her left shoulder, Darame left without a backward glance at the guaard who shadowed her.
All those trips spent loading cargo finally counted for something. Finding the posting of berths and manifests had not taken long; getting access to the loading docks had taken longer. But the Nualan spaceport security was no better or worse than that of any other ground base, and as the bells announced compline, Garth found the transport he was seeking.
A stroll past the area, as if taking a final stretch... no one visible. Cargo cubes were rolling up a conveyor and feeding into the hold of Ellie’s Folly. Listening intently, Garth heard a familiar scuffling and click. He smiled; automatic stacking near the doors. Reversing direction, Garth tossed his bakit casually over a shoulder and paced the conveyor. If he could cross the watching eye simultaneously with a cube, his presence would be cancelled out by the code emblazoned across the packing container.
Flickering began, and then ceased. Leaping past the open hatch, Garth ducked behind a row of secured cubes, settling to one side of a running light. Now the wait began. The last hurdle remained: would they notice a weight discrepancy? Unlikely. This methplane was a local version of an older design; unless they had brand new internal monitors, they would not be able to sense the change his presence created.
Andersen. As far away as I can get from here, except maybe Wallace, and nothing’s leaving for Wallace tonight. If only he knew a bit more about Andersen... ah, well, it couldn’t be that different from Amura-By-The-Sea. He had some concentrates, at least — they would tide him over until he reached another source. If you had nothing to do with that fride, Lucy, I’m sorry I stood you up. I’ll make it up to you as soon as I can.
Now why should he feel bad about standing her up? Just another one flitting through....The memory of a pair of narrowed black eyes suddenly glinted at him, and he smiled in spite of himself. What would it be like, staying with someone? Finding someone like his parents had... like Lise had?
The possibility that there might not be any off-world food in Andersen did not occur to Garth until long after they were in the air.
It was not until Darame was strapping herself into a seat that her thoughts stopped running on before her. Motionless, the woman took a deep breath and tried to consciously retrace her steps. Reaching the spaceport, she had hurried to the air terminal; Kristinsson had no chance to get off-world, not without the proper passes. Several guaard had been waiting at the scheduling screen — had they run off in an attempt to find Kristinsson, even as she approached?
I told them not to let him take off, Darame remembered. And they had scattered, even as she had scanned the possible transports. No, not Dielaan, else why run? If he was leery of Atare, he would not head to their capital city... the Kilgore flight was hours away. Seedar felt too close, but still, he could slip back up the coast on a ship —
Seedar or Andersen. Turning to her guaard, she had sent the man to the Seedar-bound ship, even as she started off toward Argos. Raising her trinium signet ring to the steward had gained her automatic entrance; there was no question that the family’s credit was good —
Vibration momentarily traced her bones, and suddenly Darame was drawn back to the now. Airborne and heading for Andersen... how soon could she finish checking the passengers? A list was no good; identification was not required for actual gold ticket sales.
She walked the length and breadth of the compartment, and no one remotely looked like Kristinsson — not even the exact height and build. He could have changed many things about himself in the past few hours, but changing height in a sitting man — or woman — took time. In with the cargo?
A touch of nausea fluttered in her stomach, momentarily disconcerting her. What a time to get a virus. Strolling back to her seat, Darame dismissed her abdomen and started reevaluating her decision to board the Argos. The reasoning was valid. All the instincts which made her what she was said Andersen in a loud voice. Andersen was even close enough to Dielaan that Garth could keep tabs on/contact with Dielaan... if he chose. Was he running from them, or being sent away? Still, the fride....
Running away.
You cannot run far enough, Kristinsson. I was not a hunter by trade... but I was a predator.
If only his head would stop throbbing. No one could be expected to think through such a haze. Sheel settled back on the low couch in Darame’s sitting room, closing his eyes. Carefully focusing awareness on the muscles of his skull and neck, he gently pushed blood into the strictured tissues. It took a few moments, but it usually worked. Not as pleasant as one of Darame’s neck rubs, but effective.
Where was the woman? Surely not still at the clan embassies. Probably Alasdair of Wallace went over the edge and is holding her hostage, came an idle thought, and Sheel smiled in spite of the subject.
His eyes focused, and he saw the pendant. Nothing they owned reflected quite like that polished piece of quartz. What was it doing on his desk? Standing slowly, Sheel moved through the arched portal into his own office. Yes, it was her pendant... her pentimento. He had looked up the word, after she had used it. A form of memory chip... Why was it in plain sight?
Because she is not. So simple, the answer. Missing, one wife. Pentimento left in trade. No... in promise. Whatever she was up to, she hadn’t abruptly tossed over the last ten years. Well, it is comfort of a sort... but I would have preferred something along the lines of “I am going to do so and so, I will return in three days.”
Whom to ask? Avis? Before he finished the thought Sheel was seated before the room’s RAM screen and calling up the relay record. No calls in the city, one call received — from the methplane terminal. No calls outside... except to greater Amura, a call to Halsey.
Switching to vid, Sheel punched in Halsey’s code. His latest picture was of the Sonoma Mountains at starset. “Very elegant,” he commented aloud. “Ask Halsey to contact The Atare as soon as possible.” Even as he reached to disconnect, Halsey’s arm flashed across the screen.
The focus shifted, the other monitor panning around to show Halsey seated at his work unit, a half-dozen screens at his disposal. He was still dressed, his ever-present cup of kona at his side. “Atare! So many callers this evening. When will you come visit?”
“As soon as I can escape,” Sheel said dryly. “Have you talked to my wife recently?”
“Indeed I have,” was the smiling reply.
“May I ask about the conversation?”
Halsey tilted his head thoughtfully. “Yes and no. I would be happy to relay the discussion to you... but we spoke in another language. This leads me to suspect she does not want the subject to become common knowledge. Shall I come to you?”
“Can you receive a full band of signals?” Sheel asked in turn.
“Indeed.”
Reaching to one side, out of sight of the vid, Sheel touched a blue button. The color was actually reflected in the screen.
“My, Atare, we are a bit blue this early morning. Some sort of scrambler?” Halsey had his professional gleam in his eyes.
“Indeed,” Sheel said with a grin. “A new toy. Mailan can arrange one for you, if you will keep it close to your heart.”
“Oh, I will, I will! Now — she called during vespers. I suspect she was working on your little problem, because she immediately dropped into Reykjavik Gavrielian and started asking questions. It will take any eavesdroppers time to find anyone who speaks that, except in the Gavrielian embassy... and I doubt they will share their tapes.”
“Remind me to tell Darame about the new toy. I did not realize she was absent when they installed it,” was Sheel’s rueful confession.
“She wanted to know if I had heard anything about a plan to steal antimatter.”
Sheel felt his left hand freeze against his cheek. “Planning to steal antimatter?”
“Past tense — whether someone had planned it.” Halsey frowned. “I heard nothing at all about such a scam, and it would have been big enough that I would know something — even if only a contact in the group. She was free-associating with information, Atare, but she did not volunteer anything other than the possibility of such a plan being implemented.”
“By —” Sheel stopped himself, and tried to think like a free-trader. Darame had some reason to suspect an antimatter theft, or she would not have called Halsey to see if a free-trader group had arranged it.
“Have you since found her source?” Sheel asked finally.
“I think so. A small article early yesterday on the net; an explosives student was quoted as saying that the blast was not large enough to account for the amount of antimatter stored at Odyssey and New Age.”
“Sweet Mendülay,” Sheel muttered, and there was no irreverence in his tone. An unspecified amount of antimatter at large....
“Can I be of assistance, Atare?” Halsey said seriously.
“Keep looking for information on this, Halsey. Darame has vanished, or so I suspect, and I will need all the help with this I can find.” Sighing, Sheel considered his next tack.
“I will call if anything interesting turns up, Atare,” Halsey replied. “Do not fret for Darame — she has taken care of herself for a long time.”
“Not in the last ten years,” Sheel replied, tension creeping into his voice. “Thank you, Halsey. I will be in touch.” Nodding farewell, he let the vid go dark. More headache exercises... he punched up his messages as he let his concentration seep into his muscles. A “thud” in his lap announced the arrival of a cat, but Sheel did not need to open his eyes to see which one. “Audio, please,” he told the RAM.
Rugged purring arose... it was Faust, the huge coon cat. Letting his hand shape the animal’s back, Sheel listened first to a note from Avis and then the seneschal’s report. The third message made him open his eyes. It was scrambled.
“Captain Mailan reporting. I am at The Atarae’s back. We are following one Garth Kristinsson, believed heading for Andersen. I will call by scrambler when we reach our destination. In my absence, Trainers Crow and Henderson will deal with all guaard business. Take care, my Atare.”
Crow and Henderson... good choices, aside from Crow being Mailan’s husband. He had matured quite nicely the past few years, and was an exemplary trainer. But to leave like that — There must have been no time to call for backup. I wonder where Darame lost her assigned guaard. Maybe she needs two people on her at all times.... Mailan hated being far from Sheel, yet she understood what Darame meant to him....
“My Atare?” Gentle Elek had appeared at his shoulder. “You have a visitor.” Sheel could not help but raise an eyebrow at the news. “Since you are still awake... the young woman is from one of the fuel merchants.”
“Name?” Sheel straightened in his seat.
“She gave the name Rebekah Finnsdottir, Atare,” Elek said simply. “It seems that Zaide arranged for her to come. The news cannot wait.”
“And the seneschal?”
“I am not sure... his assistant, Dalis, is escorting her.” Elek stood his ground, his expression faintly disapproving.
“Saffra, cheese, and bread would be nice, Elek,” Sheel finally said. The man’s face smoothed slightly, and Sheel knew he had made the proper response. What had he had for dinner? Had he had dinner?
“Has she taken the series?” Elek asked.
“I believe so; undoubtedly she is in the record banks, she is currently involved with a member of the Dielaan throneline.” Lowering his head in his quaint bow, Elek withdrew into the shadows. Only after the door had slid shut behind him did Sheel stand and move back into Darame’s spacious sitting room. Settling in a chair by the huge arched windows, he let his gaze rest upon the dark water. Something that could not wait....
Sheel chose not to turn when the door slid open; Ayers was one of the guaard on duty, there was no danger here. Only after the reflections in the windows stopped moving did he face his visitors. “You requested an audience?” He looked at dark Dalis as he spoke in Caesarean.
Zaide’s quiet assistant gave him one of her fathomless stares. “The seneschal is preparing a statement,” she said meaningfully, and nodded her obedience as she backed from the room.
As the door slid shut, Sheel gestured to the chair across from his own. “Please, be seated.”
“Thank you, Atare.” Her voice was strong and without accent, marking Caesarean as her second language. “I have come to offer you an apology, and to assure you that Odyssey Unlimited did not leak the code yellow information to the net.”
“If you did not leak the information, then I do not see the need for an apology,” Sheel responded in turn.
The woman’s lips tightened momentarily. “I am the one offering the apology, Atare — not Odyssey. While we were breaking into the drums yesterday, we carefully kept the net out of the building. Only one of the local police force witnessed the information-gathering. But... a friend of mine was concerned about me, and came to the offices. He was present when we discovered the code yellow, and mentioned it in The Synod meeting which followed. I think that caused some problems for you.”
Two delegations walked out, and two others had to be physically separated. Problems? But he did not volunteer his thoughts. “Quen leaked the information to the net?”
“No! But... one of the attendants with him....”
“Is now unemployed?” Sheel suggested.
There was a swift expulsion of air through the delicately-chiseled nose. “He is Rex Dielaan’s servant; I suspect his is a life position.”
Zaide would not be drafting a statement over mischief.... “It would be unfair to blame you for actions beyond your control. You had no way of knowing that Rex Dielaan would choose to reveal that information.”
“Quen is very angry about it. I think he plans on apologizing to The Synod tomorrow.” Her expression was both contrite and hopeful.
Not if Rex finds out his plans. Instead he will be on his way to Dielaan. “I take it you have further news to share?”
This brought on a sigh — the kind that was more a drawing of fortitude. “The code yellow was false.”
Sheel stared at her. “Explain,” he said finally.
“I mean that it was unnecessary — no code yellow situation existed at that time. It was well-done, and we never would have discovered it if we had not delved into the drums, but it was counterfeit. Also... one of our technicians is missing.” The last was reluctant.
“Someone else was in the building?” Without looking he reached to where he knew Elek had placed his mug of saffra.
Slightly distracted by the realization that she was about to share a private snack with The Atare of Nuala, Rebekah stumbled slightly over her reply. “No, Atare... he is simply missing. We... we fear he may have been part of the sabotage.”
Leaning forward, Sheel asked: “You have proof of sabotage?”
“We have a counterfeit code yellow. The penalties in such cases are severe.” Rebekah graciously took the cup Elek was offering. “Someone wanted entry into the building at a certain time. You see, the codekeys we issue our employees only work on certain shifts — and their jobs depend on guarding those keys. This man could not arrange third shift access without arousing comment.”
“Did he have the skill to create a faulty code report?”
“If he did, we never knew of it. The pay scale is higher for bank programmers; he could have made a great deal more money if he had mentioned that training.” Rebekah paused to sip her saffra. “My uncle suspects that someone bribed him, and then gave him a new codekey. Possibly one which somehow loaded a program through the lock.”
“Is that possible?” At her blank look, he glanced over his shoulder to Ayers. “Have you heard of such a thing?”
“Programming is involved, Atare. It is possible, but it is so rare few locks have defenses against it,” Ayers responded.
“Not so rare anymore, it appears. Why did they want access? Why not simply plant a bomb of some type outside the building?”
“Ingredients for bombs are restricted, Atare. It would take a long time to access the smaller types of explosive devices. Easily located weapons are bulky, and someone walking the rounds might find them. Then there is the problem of timing devices and detonators. Detonators, especially, are not as easy to acquire,” Ayers explained.
“While antimatter needs no detonator... not even a timer. All it needs is to combine,” Rebekah finished for him. “Most of our traps were magnetic. We had only one active trap, Atare, and it had a very good backup generator. The odds on both sources failing simultaneously are more than coincidence can explain.”
“Sabotage,” Sheel agreed.
“There is more.” Taking one of the tiny round rolls, Rebekah ripped it apart with considerable strength. “My uncle believes that the purpose of this exercise was to steal antimatter, not destroy it. If that turns out to be the case, then an unspecified amount of antimatter is at large.”
“Unspecified.” Sheel picked up another cube of jack cheese. “Can we determine how much antimatter was taken?”
“If we can get New Age to cooperate with us. Normally we are vague about the amount of antimatter on hand at any given time. It is traditional, more than anything else, although of course it keeps people from studying our trade secrets.” She lowered her gaze modestly at these words.
“There is no cause for condemnation in a fair profit,” Sheel said, amused at her expression.
“Exactly! But we have leverage with the owners of New Age, and we can convince them to pool figures. The difference between the blast radius and the amount of antimatter in storage can then be determined.” A veil of relief seemed to cross her features.
There were several moments of silence, as Sheel considered the problem. How much should they reveal to the public? Would the knowledge that antimatter was in an unsecured area panic the Amurans?
“How safe is the antimatter?” As much as he hated even to mention it, safety was first in his mind. Ransom — or other motives — could come later.
“If it was packed by Stennis, it should be fairly safe,” she replied quickly. “He is quite competent. We had portable traps on hand with exemplary superconducting rings. The danger lies in the control box and the refrigeration unit. As long as they used compatible systems, there is no danger. The power cells must be recharged, of course, but each trap comes with an extra power strip. If they knew about the duplicate and took it, exchanging the strip is simple — I’ve done it myself.”
“I thought that control boxes were tightly regulated, and individual to a ship,” Sheel stated, probing.
“They are. Only the largest ships have two of them. Therefore, either a ship up at the wheel is missing its control box, or someone bought one on the black market, from a derelict or scrapped vehicle.”
“Older, in other words,” Sheel amplified, beginning to tear up a roll.
Rebekah nodded hesitantly, sensitive to his tone of voice.
“So... we can call in a search for control boxes, and we can check to see if anyone is drawing a sudden excess of power.”
The young woman’s face brightened. “Yes! Recharging a power strip or attaching the trap to a main source would produce a draw visible to a sensitive gauge. Only I hope they don’t... a straight drain from a line....”
“Why would there be a difference?”
“Surges,” she said promptly. “Surges and outages. The power in Amura is intermittent during storm season.” Rebekah gestured out the window at the blackness beyond. “That is why we have backups on every trap, not just the active one. The power strip would continue to drain if left on... and could not pick up quickly enough in an outage. It is for main power, not emergency backup. The systems are wired differently.”
Both of them turned at the whisper of the door sliding open. It was Zaide, his dark countenance gleaming through the intensity of his gaze.
“Just the person I needed,” Sheel said briskly. “Saffra?”
“Please,” was the response — a dry and windy response.
Gesturing toward a chair, Sheel asked: “The statement is complete?”
“The first draft. I wanted to check a few points with the serae before she retired for the night.” Ignoring Rebekah’s blush at the word “serae,” Zaide continued: “At this point I do not know if it is wise to mention possible ‘theft.’ Can we reach your uncle at Odyssey headquarters?”
“Or at New Age, if he’s left our offices,” she suggested.
“Excellent. Thank you, Elek,” Zaide added. Reaching with one hand, he pointed Sheel’s pocket controller at a wall screen hidden behind draperies and activated it. The gauze began to draw back. “Now, what code reaches the private office of your uncle?”
Garth was awakened from a fitful doze by the sensation of falling. He had just enough time to remember where he was, and to wonder why it felt like they were falling — The engines are dead. Dead? Before he could follow up the thought, pain and darkness overwhelmed him.
When he awoke the second time, all was quiet... too quiet. Even the gentle drone of the engines was missing. Electrical failure? Reaching slowly, he touched a lump on his head. Magdalen’s Hair, that hurt!
Then he realized that the running lights had extinguished. Over the exterior hatch door, the green emergency EXIT light glowed softly. Where had they gone down? Andersen was half a continent away... most of it desert. Swallowing in a throat suddenly gone dry, Garth moved shakily toward the beckoning EXIT light.
It took time and strength to trigger the emergency release on the hatch. First Garth had to pick the lock on the control panel, and lockpicking had never been his strongest skill. Finally he gained entry to the wires. He recognized the connections to the locks, and was able to override them — but the schematic was in Nualan, and the door itself was a mystery. Rather than risk fusing the panel shut, he rigged a pulley around a conveyor bar and slowly hauled the hatch aside.
Although he had suspected what he would find, from the continuing silence, Garth was not fully prepared for the scene outside the cargo door. Sand... shifting, undulating white sand, as far as the eye could see. At the horizon was a pale promise of starrise, but it was no comfort, except to point out the east. Now this, he thought grimly, this is a desert. Pushing out a ladder, Garth carefully made his way to the sand below.
Circling the methplane told him one thing — there had been an electrical short in one of the engines. All things considered, the pilot had made a decent landing... if he had only been wearing a harness, Garth might not have hit his head.
A dark cockpit... injured? Sleeping? Or had he actually left the crash site? Why would anyone risk leaving? Unless he knew the area well enough to reach help quickly.... Garth climbed to the hatch leading into the narrow crew quarters, and found it unlocked. Someone had left, then....
Punching the lights brought up the emergency floods. Wincing at the brightness, Garth settled into the navigator’s chair and looked for the comp. The panel was dark, locked and silent. Damn! How about simple charts? No manual charts, but the rest of the readouts could be operated... ah. Power filled the screen, lighting up several dials and scopes. General planetary information wasn’t restricted, then....
There was a beacon broadcasting. It was in Nualan, unfortunately. Recognizing the Nualan words for Amura-By-The-Sea, Garth brought up the chart for the coast. Numbering was sequential from left to right, so he started looking for a time log. Was it tied into the comp?
It was... but there was a separate log-in for the pilot. He had logged out at 0303 A.M. Ciedär. It was now 0546 A.M. Ciedär. That meant.... I was unconscious at least three hours. Checking the pilot’s log-in, Garth tried to remember the time zones. Coastal, Dragoche, Ciedär, Andersen... they had made it as far as the Ciedär zone, which meant that the mountains to the west of the downed ship were the Dragoche Range. Effectively the middle of nowhere. Had the pilot been flying slower than usual, because his readings indicated engine trouble?
Had he been a smuggler? So who is coming back for the cargo?
“He has to be here!” Darame gave the young man at the information desk her blackest stare.
It was as effective as usual — he squirmed and became paler — but no more information was forthcoming. “I am sorry, Atarae, but he was not on the passenger list of Argos. He was not on the cargo ship Sweet Dreams, either. The captain has had the hold searched from top to bottom.”
“I thought there were three ships due in from Amura?”
This pointed question seemed to distress the clerk further. “There were — are — three ships due in nightside, but Ellie’s Folly is overdue.”
“Why?”
“There is a hold on information —”
“Circumvent it.”
Sighing, the terminal employee delved back into his RAM. Although Darame had no legal authority in Andersen, the House of Atare was highly respected, and the youth would bend over backward to fulfill her request.
“Atarae, satellite picked up a report of engine trouble at the end of matins. The plane lost contact with all stations shortly afterward. That... usually means a crash. The winds are so treacherous —”
“It is not storm season. What else produces that type of blank? A power failure?” She gave him a hard look.
Wincing again, the clerk said: “Yes, possibly — Wait. The pilot has checked in with the Cied who do retrieval in that area. Electrical failure in a port engine, resulting in an emergency landing in the ciedär.”
“Was he alone?” she demanded.
“Yes, Atarae.”
“Hell’s Bells!” This outburst silenced the clerk — his round face became paler still, and his adam’s apple bobbed in protest. Flinging her hands into the air, Darame yelled: “Then where is he?”
“Undoubtedly still aboard Ellie’s Folly.” The low alto voice startled Darame, but she did not let the clerk know. “I have already contacted center command. The terminal and all other outgoing flights were searched. The flight to Seedar was searched before disembarking was allowed. Garth Kristinsson — or what is left of him — is on Ellie’s Folly.”
Her years of experience rising to the fore, Darame turned to Mailan as if the guaard had been seated next to her the entire trip. “Suggestions?”
“The Cied will find the ship and strip its cargo, bringing it back to their outstation — that is how they earn their ‘fee.’ Let us charter a small plane, and go to the outstation. We will arrive before the representatives of Ellie’s Folly, and can negotiate, if necessary, for Kristinsson.”
Negotiate? Ah, yes — a stray off-worlder, adrift without a visa... the Cied had been known to keep them to improve their genetic outreach.
Whether they wanted to be kept or not....
Twisting back toward the clerk, Darame raised her voice and asked: “Can you charter me a methplane from that screen?”
Far, far to the east, a small pale star was rising. Garth had known the planet was huge, but he had not expected the horizon to seem so... dreamy. It floated, as if nothing about it was quite definite. A small thing, admiring the Nualan star before it rose into its fiery glory, but it kept him from thinking too much about his predicament.
Leaving the plane would be foolish. He had no idea where he was, aside from somewhere east of the Dragoche Mountains. He had no water — he didn’t want to think about that. Attempting a trek by day would be suicidal; the monsoons had not yet reached this desert. Maybe never reached this side of the desert.... Certainly the desert dwellers had wells, but they were both hidden and guarded.
They must have boundaries... someone must consider this hill of sand their territory. Eventually they will investigate. Soon? No sense worrying about it. Better to close the hatches again, and try to keep cool without a breeze. Delayed stress, a headache, and rising temperature made Garth both sleepy and irritable. Maybe if he just sat quietly....
The sound of the cargo hatch door rolling open awakened him. Reflexively Garth rolled into a sitting position on top of the cube nearest the conveyor. To his surprise, the individual standing at the top of the ladder was wrapped in some type of gauzy robe, several scarves of the same delicate beige completely obscuring a face.
A mummy, Garth thought vaguely, memories of musty museums fogging his thoughts. No... a Ciedärlien. A tribal desert dweller....
The faceless creature “stared” at him for a moment, and then turned slightly, speaking in swift Nualan to someone out of sight. It was a stronger language than that of the western coast; more rolling, with harder emphasis at what appeared to be the beginning of sentences... or the end of sentences? It scarcely seemed to be the same tongue.
Maybe it isn’t. “Does anyone speak Caesarean?” he asked softly.
Another gauzed head popped over the lower edge of the hatchway. A third head appeared... hanging down from the top of the hatch. Sweet Peter, how does he do that? This individual had real eyes — the scarf covered only the lower face. Dark orbs studied him for a long moment.
“#**((?))+?!” said the hanging apparition imperiously.
“I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I would like to explain to whoever is in charge...” Garth began carefully, finding the tone they were using alarming. He was careful not to move his hands abruptly.
A blur of movement at the corner of his eye — had they somehow opened the inner hatch to the control room? Strong fingers seized flesh, and a searing prick followed. Pain spread up his arm, sweeping like a wave to the spine and then throughout his body. It was like bumping an elbow abruptly, only worse, much worse — his entire body was going numb.
Ah, well, they couldn’t take your word for it that you’re harmless, now, could they? It was the only coherent thought he had before the pain reached his head and exploding bursts of color swept consciousness away.