Korval's Game (100 page)

***

THERE WERE VOICES
ahead, and a better lit corridor. Merlin strolled on, unconcerned. The rest of the invasion force shrank back into the plentiful shadows.

Came the hurried clatter of someone who was not an Agent in the halls. They remained in the shadows, despite a complaining burble from Merlin—and then moved, cautiously, on.

“Commander!” came the call from the hallway they approached; the answering voice sent a thrill down Val Con’s spine.

“Report!”

The words grew indistinct and the invaders, weapons ready, ghosted quickly to the intersection. Val Con spied ’round the corner, and swallowed hard against a surge of sheer horror.

His sister Anthora, trapped by two Agents and the Commander himself, using her body to shield one who could only be Mr. dea’Gauss, but a dea’Gauss diminished and desperately ill. She held a gun, true enough, but so did her opponents. If all fired at once, even a dramliza—

The Commander raised his weapon. The Agents raised theirs. The aide gasped and bolted.

From the shadowed floor leapt a large gray cat, wrapping itself around the Commander’s arm, pulling the gun down. A pellet whined by Val Con’s ear as he jumped forward, his own gun out and up . . .

Training had prepared Agent ter’Fendil to face an opponent with a blade, a gun, or even a security dog. The apparition attacking the Commander bore no relationship to training—and he dared not fire again for fear of endangering the Commander. He reversed his gun, meaning to club the thing—

“Hold!” Anthora shouted, her voice a-glitter with power. “Do not move!”

Val Con kept moving, firing into the face of an Agent. Merlin snarled and dug his claws in the harder.

Everyone else in the hallway froze in place: ter’Fendil with his gun reversed, Sheather, his blade raised as if to behead him; Nelirikk, aim locked on the Commander.

The Commander struggled, as pain overrode the compulsion to stillness. But for Merlin’s growls, there was silence in the hallway. The sound of dea’Gauss collapsing to the floor was loud—and so, too, was the sudden wail of alarms, and the sound of running feet.

Sheather shook himself; lowered his blade, and bowed in Anthora’s direction.

“As you say.”

***

THE MURDERER
was gone; destroyed at his word. For the second time in his life, he had killed a ship. Pat Rin touched a switch, opening the comm line between himself and those sworn to serve him.

“Well done, Colonel,” he said calmly.

“Thank you, sir,” Andy Mack replied formally.

“First class shooting,” Dostie chimed in, just ahead of Bhupendra’s satisfied, “we teach the enemy to fear us.”

“Which ain’t exactly,” Cheever McFarland added, “an unmixed blessing.” He paused. “How many of them ships out there can we count on as back up, Boss? The battlewagon?”

Dutiful Passage
, that would be, and a question near to his own heart and peace. That it was captained by Priscilla Mendoza, Shan’s first mate and longtime lover, was . . . disturbing. And yet . . .

Pat Rin leaned to the comm. “I shall attempt to ascertain, Mr. McFarland. In the meanwhile, do me the kindness of speaking with the High Judge, as my deputy.”

“Will do,” Cheever said, as easily as if he spoke to such august persons daily, and signed off.

Pat Rin did the same, and sat for a moment, hands folded, as he gathered his courage—though what had he to fear? Priscilla Mendoza was well-known to him as a kind and generous lady. He had no need nor reason to fear her. Indeed, he could be certain that she would tell him, at long last, the truth.

The truth.

He reached to the board once more, fingering the keys with care, accessing the most secret Korval band . . .

“Well met, kinsman!” Shan’s voice flowed cheerily into the cabin, as clear as if his cousin sat in the co-pilot’s chair. Pat Rin closed his eyes, fingers gripping the edge of the board.

“Well met,” he answered, shakily, knowing Shan would hear the tears in his reply, and caring not at all. “How fares the clan?”

“As it happens, we thrive—the more so now that the one who had fallen off-grid is returned to us. You must tell me all about your holiday—later. For the moment—rest assured that the
Passage
stands at your back as you speak for Korval. Oh, and check in with Jeeves, will you?”

“Jeeves?” Pat Rin cleared his throat. “Yes, I will. Shan—”

“Softly,” his cousin interrupted, not ungently. “We cannot know that the line remains secure.”

“Of course.” He drew a careful breath. “Until soon, cousin.”

“Until soon, Pat Rin. Stay the course.”

The connection light went out.

***

“HOW FARE
we, my brother?” Sheather inquired from his position as guard over the Commander, who lay unconscious, savaged hand hastily wrapped in a shirt.

Val Con was rapidly divesting Agent ter’Fendil of the tools of his trade: knives, smoke-gas pelletts, garrotte, capsules filled with poison, cunning button-sized explosives; the wallet, with its generous destructive possibilities; the boots, the interesting little blade under the sock, various guns in a diversity of calibers . . .

They had concealed themselves in the Commander’s office—a questionable solution, at best. The advantages of the situation included a door that would not yield to the searchers, and access to the Commander’s files, computers and comms. That there was no easy escape was . . . annoying.

Val Con removed a selection of pins and wires from the seams of Agent ter’Fendil’s vest.

“We are in some disarray, I fear,” he said to Sheather. “Behind enemy lines, burdened by prisoners and casualties . . .” He glanced over his shoulder to the place where Anthora kept watch over their two injured—an old man and an ancient gray cat—and returned to his task.

“On the whole, it would be best if we simply melted away into the night . . .”

As if to underscore the whimsy of that expressed desire, the loudspeaker in the ceiling gave tongue: “Intruder alert! Multiple intruders on Level Seven . . .”

“Enough.” Val Con pushed the Agent against the wall, under Sheather’s watchful blade, and edged past Nelirikk, who was happily removing the travel packing from their supply of explosives.

At the Commander’s desk, he sat, and reached for the comm.

The access codes changed frequently, according to a pattern imbedded in the Loop of every Agent. Val Con frowned at the comm, trying to reconstruct the barely-glimpsed pattern—and, suddenly, gently, in the space behind his eyes that had previously been reserved for Loop display, there hung an access code.

***

SOMETHING HAD GONE
terribly wrong.

Ren Zel felt himself a man of two separate but equal parts.

One part sat his board on the bridge of the
Dutiful Passage
, attending the minutia of piloting, monitoring the various bands that told of mayhem and dismay on the nearer stations, and minding his shields most closely.

The second part knelt next to Anthora on a cold metal floor, one hand on the chest of an old and fragile man, the other on the laboring side of a valiant gray cat.

“What’s amiss?” he asked and felt her sigh.

“Mr. dea’Gauss must have a ’doc—and that soon. Merlin—he has been shot. I cannot—quite—understand how badly he is wounded. If I could but take both home . . . I have tried bespeaking the Tree, and there is no answer. We are trapped here.”

“Are you?” He glanced around the cold metal room, seeing the golden lines running pure and true. “Perhaps not.”

***

FINGERS POISED
above the comm, Val Con considered the access code hanging just behind his eyes.

“Brother!” Anthora’s voice was sharp with urgency.

He spun, heart clenched in fear of hearing the old man’s death—but no. His sister was standing tall, face animated—even eager.

“I require aid,” she said quickly. “Do you put dea’Gauss on my back and I shall take him to Jelaza Kazone.”

He blinked. Anthora was a wizard of some note, true enough, but . . .

“Will you walk through walls?” he asked.

She nodded. “I will. Assist me.”

In the end, it required Nelirikk to gently lift dea’Gauss onto Anthora’s back. Val Con lashed the man’s wrists together on her breast, and used a length of fuse to tie them both ’round the waist.

“If I am able to return, I will do so,” she said, breathless with bearing the unaccustomed burden. “Merlin . . .”

“If you make it to safety, you will remain there,” Val Con said firmly. “We shall care for Merlin—and ourselves.” He stepped back, waving at Nelirikk to do the same.

“If you are able, now is the time,” he murmured.

“Yes.” Slowly, awkward with the added weight, she walked directly toward the wall.

There was a flash of golden light, and an instant when the metal went to fog—then Anthora, and Mr. dea’Gauss, were gone.

“Jela’s blood produces many wonders,” Nelirikk commented, and returned to the unpacking of explosives.

After a moment, Val Con went back to the comm, and tapped in the code he had been given.

The unit light went from red to green. Scarcely daring to breathe, Val Con punched in the code for Jeeves’ private line.

“Jelaza Kazone.”

Val Con sat down in the Commander’s chair.

“This is Korval,” he said, keeping his voice steady, despite his foolishly pounding heart. “Pray confirm my ID. Also, please put a tracer on this call. Let Miri know that we are well, at liberty, but . . . contained. How stands the action?”

“ID confirmed. Miri will be informed. Working. How wide a theater?”

“Entire.”

A small pause.

“The planetary defense net is ours,” Jeeves said. “We control near space. A warship of the Department of the Interior has been destroyed by one of Lord Pat Rin’s vessels.
Dutiful Passage
has been pressed into service for back up and link duty. Scout and Juntavas forces are prepared to allow Tree-and-Dragon central command if action is necessary.”

“Jeeves, forgive me—Lord Pat Rin’s forces?”

“Yes, quite an elegant group of ships flying Tree-and-Dragon, perfect for a low key planetary embargo, insurrection control, or as siege ships. They are precisely disciplined and well-crewed.”

Ah, are they? And how came Pat Rin by such ships?
Val Con moved his shoulders, putting aside such questions in favor of those more pressing.

“Planetary?” he asked Jeeves.

“Much of the planet is calm; Solcintra Portmaster has issued a flight hiatus, incidentally warning Captain Mendoza that her license is in danger. Solcintra City is not calm. There are riots in strategic locations, and we have signs of enemy action in Low Port. Higdon’s Howlers are active at your location and at the spaceport. Here, we have withstood several attempts at penetration and anticipate—pardon, working . . .”

Across the room, Sheather moved, knife flashing. There was a scream—of metal, as the blade sheared through the floor. “Brother, he has initiated a device!”

The Commander’s hand was still wrapped in his shirt; Nelirikk sprang forward and jerked the covering off, forcing the clenched hand open . . .

“Scout.” He threw the object; Val Con snatched it out of the air and stared down at it—a short and stubby wand, its surface studded with tiny buttons and switches . . .

Agent ter’Fendil shrank against the wall, staring at the Commander in horror.

“You’ve given them orders. But—”

“ . . . working!” Jeeves voice came out of the comm. “Alert! There has been a sixty thousand fold increase in neutrino emissions from Liad. Triangulation places the source at your location. Suggest immediate evacuation of all personnel.”

Nelirikk had dragged the Commander up by the back of his collar. He shook him, as a dog shakes a rat. “Inform me!”

The Commander said nothing.

“The level of neutrino flux is consistent with old-style timonium powered armored units,” Jeeves said. “Suggest immediate evacuation.”

“Brother,” Sheather said. “Something of much power is in motion. It moves strangely . . .” He turned and placed his three fingered hand flat against the wall.

“It comes . . .”

***

THERE WAS FIGHTING
on the stations, there was fighting in the streets. Status reports poured in steadily, until Miri felt like she was drowning in details.

The Department’s base in the commercial district of Solcintra city had been taken by an angry mob, led, she strongly suspected, by scouts—a victory for the angels, except for the civilians dead, of course.

Closer to the port, the news wasn’t so good—the mob there had been repelled, expensively. Word was that there was a regroup in process.

Low Port was the worry—there’d been a couple unanticipated explosions. There were scouts there, too, trying to organize an evacuation.

The wall of books to her left shimmered and went foggy, for all the world like Clutch drive affect.

Miri blinked and came half out of her chair, too tired to even swear at the pain in her arm.

The books solidified and suddenly she wasn’t alone. A dark-haired woman with an old man tied across her back was swaying in front of the bookcase.

“Help,” she said.

***

THERE WAS A CRASHING
sound behind the wall, and another.

“ . . . Autonomous Semi-sentient Policing Systems,” Jeeves said; “or ASPS. They were deployed a number of times on outworlds, for the most part disastrously, which resulted in public backlash against applications of such technology to civilian situations. I was once assigned as back up, and then lead control in a military operation designed to rid a world of the devices . . . approximately seventeen million dead as a result of erroneous deployment . . .”

“You must define the enemy or they will destroy everything,” Agent ter’Fendil said. He lurched to his feet, ignoring Sheather, his blade—and the Commander, who was all at once on his feet, a plain metal blade in his good hand, slashing at the unprotected back—

ter’Fendil spun, Agent-quick, slapped the knife away, closing and twisting, taking advantage of his adversary’s momentum—

The Commander’s neck broke with a
snap
. Agent ter’Fendil dropped the body and shrank back, staring.