Challenge Met, page 10
Chapter 17
His life was peeled away from him layer by layer, sometimes poignant and sometimes sweet, like the skin of an onion, but always painful. He hung onto his existence tenaciously, unwilling to let it go no matter how painful. No doubt the Ash-Farel observed this about him as much as they did the veinings and ganglia they traced. He had no way of knowing their reaction to his humanness, but their surgical skill he could attest to in that he still lived at all.
Strange to be alive and yet disembodied, to search for comfort and find only more agony, to look for death and see instead the myriad points of his soul that were connected to others. He brushed the consciousness of Jack’s armor and then Jack himself, emperors and knaves, and the shadowy glint of Amber’s thoughts, nothing he could anchor himself to and yet interwoven strongly throughout himself. He found he could not pray to die, that to let go now would cause a vast unweaving of a pattern he couldn’t yet admire. So he clung to the strands of his life and his soul with all the feeble weakness he could muster.
It must have been enough. He slowly became aware that the Ash-Farel were putting him back together. The vastly separated stars of his life and thought rushed close and connected again. No longer was he strewn against the dark threshold of his own death.
He awoke to greater pain than he had ever known, to a body that was his and yet not his. The Ash-Farel had taken him apart and put him back together. But for all their skill, they had not done it correctly.
Chapter 18
I heard the emperor was taking appointments for audiences again.” A frail, wispy white-haired man stood at the palace viewscreen. He shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “I need to talk with him as soon as possible.” His release from the Green Shirt lab kept him on edge, moving, fearful of being found. He’d been told to seek out the Minister of War, but to give his message in person.
An officious looking woman stared back at him. “State your name, Church ranking, and affiliation.”
“Church? I—” the being stammered to a halt.
“You’re not a Walker?”
“Why, no, I… I’m a xenobiologist,” the man said, with the shreds of his dignity.
“I’m sorry,” the hawk-nosed woman told him. “The audience chambers are being opened to Walkers only.”
“But I—”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated icily. “Strike negotiations must take precedence. Surely you understand that. Public audiences will be opening once the general strike has been settled.”
“I must talk with Baadluster,” Mierdan insisted. “I have something important to tell him that I cannot submit by com line. There must be something you can do—tell him—”
The woman had been seated on-screen. Now she got to her feet, and he knew instantly he’d been pleading with the wrong person as she came out from behind the shelter of her console. Not only was she massive, but the crude cross that vibrated with irritation on her heaving breast identified her as a Walker herself. “I’ve called for palace security,” she told him. “I suggest you leave before they respond.”
Mierdan turned and fled. He had no desire to be detained by the World Police. The street beyond the palace gates remained open and quiet. He paused. Having come this far… He turned back, brushing at the front of his rather seedy clothing. His old security clearance had gotten him this far. Despite his reedy stature and frail nerve, he was not inclined to give up this easily. His lab work had been poorly funded and ill-received, but he had information which could change the entire structure of the Thrakian alliance. The rioting over St. Colin’s disappearance aside, nothing could be more important than this, but he had to tell the minister face to face. The Thraks had infiltrated Malthen too thoroughly. With the loss of the Countess, his benefactors had been thrown into chaotic inaction. Mierdan could wait no longer.
The sound of Thrakian chittering brought him to a halt and then a dash into the greenery bordering the grounds. His skin prickled with fear and he ground his teeth to keep them from chattering and to hold back the bile in his throat. He’d spent too many years as a Thrakian captive to lose his freedom now. He listened to them pass. He caught a little sense of their communication. The Walker situation was being closely watched. But these were warrior Thraks and most of their conversation was of eagerness to fight and wondering when they would be unleashed to do so. Mierdan found the warrior Thraks muscle-bound and dull, single-minded. The only warrior Thraks of any subtlety and guile the man had ever known had been Guthul. Guthul, he sensed, could easily have been a diplomatic Thraks as well.
When the aliens had passed, Mierdan crawled out on stomach and pointed elbows, to see where he had brought himself. He did not recognize the outbuildings or the massive, fire-walled stadium beyond but he knew he had to be near the barracks for the Dominion Knights. To be caught here might well cost him his life, if the Thraks did not get hold of him first. Mierdan scurried back into the foliage.
Voices carried, human voices. The tiny man ducked his face down and hoped that his thatch of now-white hair remained unseen among the greenery.
“That’s done, then,” growled a coarse voice. “Fitted for th’ suit and backed as well as you can be, Commander.”
The second voice was milder in tenor but it drew Mierdan’s attention immediately. He strained against the impulse to look up, to match gazes with the owner of that voice. “K’rok surprised me.”
“I’d give my left nut to know why queenie let him off the hook so’s he could go with you, other than to spy.”
“Me, too. K’rok has never been wholly loyal to his Thrakian host, but neither can I count on an alliance with him. I’ll have Rawlins and Amber with me.”
Mierdan edged his chin up over a leafy branch. He could clearly see the two men who spoke and he muffled his shock with a trembling hand. He knew he’d recognized that voice—he could not forget the man who’d saved his life and brought him home alive from Klaktut—but the man had been captured by Pepys as a traitor. What miracle was this?
The Knight’s voice cut through his confusion. “I don’t want Amber along.”
Lassaday brayed in response, then said, “You won’t be keepin’ that one behind! Not anymore.”
“She deserves better, Sarge. Pepys is letting me go after Colin—but I haven’t been reinstated and I may not be, regardless of what he says. I’m a traitor and when the emperor has no further use for me, I won’t have much of a future.”
“You’re no deserter, Commander,” answered Lassaday with conviction.
Mierdan’s mouth hurt from the pressure of his hand across it. He watched the two men continue walking, taking them out of ear and eyeshot. His information was privileged, yet no one would hear him… and he could think of no one else who would put it to better use than Commander Storm. Yet Mierdan was confused by the apparent resurrection and by the words “traitor” and “deserter.” He brushed hesitation aside and stood up. Leaves tangled in his wispy hair.
A shadow darker than those of tree and limb fell across him. Mierdan looked up and shrank aside as the massive battle armor dwarfed him. He could not read what manner of face was behind the visor as the right gauntlet reached out and engulfed his shoulder.
“What you be doing here, little man?”
Mierdan’s newfound resolve dried in his throat. “Storm,” he got out. “I must see Commander Storm.”
The gauntlet closed on his shoulder until bone and cartilage moved in protest and flesh pulped into bruises. “What say you?”
“I must find Commander Storm!” Mierdan’s voice went falsetto as the gauntlet drew him up on his toes, dangling in pain. In sudden panic, he twisted loose, the fabric covering his shoulder tearing and he sprinted away, darting out of sight and through the palace gates. The hulking figure in battle armor looked after him, suit cameras taking a record of each and every step.
Mierdan reached dubious sanctuary in under-Malthen and closed his door behind him, panting with nervous energy. His shoulder twinged with every breath or movement, yet he could tell from gingerly testing it that nothing had been broken or permanently damaged. Those suits were powerful! With only a little more effort from the wearer, he would have been pulverized.
It was a long time after his heart and pulse calmed before he moved away from the door and crossed the shabby room where the Green Shirts had secreted him and his work. What use they’d have for him now, he did not know. His whole world had gone topsy-turvy once again. He did not know whom to trust. He put no stock in the expediency of politics.
He began to clean up the tiny lab, destroying tapes and disks as he went. His work was done, engraved indelibly in his memory. He would not leave evidence for others to misuse. He worked feverishly, heedless of the pain in his shoulder or of the growing hunger in his stomach. When done, he would destroy the lab and flee, to think about what he knew and decide what it was best to do with the information. He would be a hunted man, not only by the Green Shirts who would think he had betrayed them, but by the Thraks who wanted him back desperately. He would have to plan well.
Mierdan never heard his door being forced, but when the overhead lights blacked out, he turned to look—and saw the colossal being occupying the building, eclipsing the lights with its armored bulk.
The being reached up and took off its helmet. The biologist saw the furred and ursine face of a Milot. His heart sank. He knew of only one Milot who served both the Thrakian League and the Dominion Knights.
The being smiled widely, fangs glinting. “I be following you, little man. Now what is being so important you must talk to Commander Storm?”
His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Mierdan backed away, blinking frantically. The debris underfoot crunched. “I—I have information for him,” he finally managed.
“Only for Jack?” the Milot swung about, looking the building over. He hunkered down in the battle armor, bringing his massive face level with Mierdan’s. “Let’s not be fooling one another, little man. I be K’rok and you be Mierdan. My queen wants you back very badly.”
“I—I’m not property! I’m a f-free man!”
“And a frightened one.” The Milot did not move. “I be telling you what few know. I also am free, though my queen would have my head and the grubs would feed off my body if she be knowing I say this. You came to find Storm. He is in great trouble now. But tell me your message and I will be giving it to him.”
“And then you’ll go?”
K’rok nodded his shaggy head affirmatively.
Mierdan stood in frightened shock a moment longer. Then, as K’rok’s gauntleted hand came up, the pain of his shoulder decided him. The words bolted out of him. “It’s about the norcite. Storm knows a little—he knows I’ve been working on the problem. You tell him. I lived among the Thraks. The grubs and drones are different from the others. The carapaces, the chiton, are much softer and flexible. I know why the Thraks covet the norcite. For a while we thought they might use a solution to coat themselves, like enamel, but that’s not it. But Jack’s old armor is coated with norcite and there were times when he was almost sure Thraks couldn’t see him. Well, they could, but didn’t.”
“Slow down,” K’rok growled.
Mierdan took a gulping breath. Then, “It’s like this. They grind the ore to powder and ingest it. That greatly strengthens the armor. The lesser castes don’t do it—it’s not necessary. So when norcite is sensed in the composition of another—the Thraks don’t see the way we do—they think they’re sensing another Thraks. But now they know the enemy is using norcite, too, so they take that into account. But what they don’t know is that norcite is affecting them adversely. Tell Jack norcite is the answer.” Mierdan slowed to a halt. He clouded his last words deliberately, unwilling to give the Milot all his information. But Storm was savvy and would make the connection. The little man gave a quivery smile in relief.
“And that is being all?”
“Yes. Can you remember that?”
“Oh, yes.” The Milot rose and shook himself. The Flexalinks gave a shimmering dance in the lights. “I be remembering all of this very well. And you?”
“I destroyed my records.”
“Good.” The Milot replaced his helmet. “I am sorry, little man.” He reached out. Mierdan had a second to let out a terrified squeak, then his head cracked audibly and he went limp in K’rok’s hands. He held the body until he was sure death had come, then he lowered it gently to the lab floor. The armor obscured the emotion in his voice. “No one is being entirely free,” he said. “They would hound you to your death. Now you are being beyond them.” With deliberate grace, he stepped over the body and left the shabby laboratory.
Chapter 19
Pepys shrugged on his red and gold threaded robes with great difficulty. The floor to ceiling com screen was filled with the visage of his caller and he had ordered his dressers to leave so that he might speak in private. The Thrakian queen looked at him with an amused glint in her faceted eyes. He wondered if she thought he put on body armor and found it amusing. His hair crackled in annoyance as he ran a hand through it.
“I do not threaten well, if at all,” he told her. There was a long pause for transmittal during which he changed his slippers for dress boots.
Then, “It is not a threat. It is a promise. We have invested much in our alliance. You are on the brink of… internal warfare. We intend to step in before the Dominion decides that it has the option to do the same.”
Fury ignited in him, burning deep in his stomach like a suddenly flaring ember. He fisted his hand. “I will declare the alliance at an end.”
Could a Thraks laugh? Her gloriously colored blue and gold chitin appeared to shake. “How, Pepys? We are entangled among you. Your armor is our armor—to separate us will leave us both exposed to the Ash-Farel. Put your nest in order before you tear us all down. We shall be close, waiting.” Tricatada tilted her head. Her throat leather fluttered, and her mask closed into an expression of beauty and command. The screen went gray.
Pepys fastened his overrobes with shaking hands. The Dominion was to be his and his alone. Even if Storm somehow managed to find Colin and return with him, forcing Pepys to be true to his word and step down, the Dominion awaited him. Tricatada hinted at betrayal and conquest under the cloak of martial law. He would find a way to stave her off. Today’s audience was only the first in a series of steps. Much depended on Storm and if the mind block Pepys had instituted was finally wearing off, he would be the weapon Pepys needed—when Storm was out of Vandover’s range.
Pepys finished his outfitting. I’ll give you your saint, friend, and a kingdom beyond that. Pray God you’ll never have to head it. With a shrug, he signaled for his ministers and went out to meet the humble Walkers who threatened to topple his reign.
Jack woke with the bitter taste of mordil still on his tongue, the empty vial clenched in his hand. He released his grip gingerly and let the vial drop. He had beaten the night. His dreams and memories were still his own this morning. With a powerful stretch, he eased his muscles into waking and got up. His dress uniform hung on a stretcher, reminding him that Pepys was putting him on display.
His imprint slipped over him from time to time, leaving him with annoying gaps of time, and nighttime was the worst. There were other drugs he could use to sleep, but mordil was the least destructive. It was worth it if he could face himself in the mirror and remember his family. The blackouts worried him less and less—the memories always came back. There was only the worry that he might commit a fatal mistake with Pepys or Vandover—and he was more likely to do that as himself, than as his imprint. He was not supposed to remember the years of intrigue and bad faith.
Nor was he expected to remember that Pepys had promised to step down if he found Colin. With a wry smile, Jack made his way to the refresher. As he passed through the apartment, he caught a bare hint of perfume and stopped to inhale it.
Had Amber been here again while he slept? He cast about, trying to catch the perfume again, wondering if he’d only imagined it. Then, having grasped nothing, he continued to the refresher. He had not seen Amber for several days, though Lassaday told him she’d come in for a suit fitting. He would arouse suspicion if he sought her out.
He stepped into the shower and let it beat down on his neck and shoulders, hammering out tense muscles. He walked a razor’s edge with Amber’s life and knew it, and did not know how to tell her he knew it. There were too many others with too much at stake listening to every word he might say to her. He could only hope that Amber could take care of herself, as she always had. He stood in the shower until the fog in the stall enveloped him.
Vandover and Pepys wanted a tame act they could trot before the Walkers to placate them. Jack did not know the Walker organization well save for Colin, Jonathan, and Denaro, and Colin’s harsh-faced secretary, Margaret—but he knew about the turmoil within the organization and that Colin’s amenable philosophy had always been in danger. The Walkers would not settle for the crumbs Pepys was hoping to toss them. Jack wanted to be there, if for no other reason than that. The order had been, no suits. If Jack had been commanding, it would have been, no Thraks. Pepys would be doing well to keep the lid on.
This would be Jack’s resurrection. The Triad Throne had declared him dead and buried, after all, months before tracking him down and bringing him back as a traitor and deserter. It wouldn’t due to be late.
