Korval's Game (12 page)

Days, about a minor Terran world offering nothing that an Agent in fulfillment of his mission might require?

He thought not.

Alas, other thoughts proliferated, chiefest among them that Val Con yos’Phelium had overpowered his brother Agent during Jump—and yet why simply
hang
there, when Waymart’s sole charm was that it offered so much possibility in the matter of Jump points?

Commander of Agents frowned. Were he Val Con yos’Phelium—and not inclined toward a debriefing—he would make all haste to fling his vessel into Jump, thence to plan and make such arrangements as he might for re-entry into normal space.

Perhaps yos’Phelium had escaped to the planet’s surface? But there was no record of the ship having done other than held this middling, dawdling orbit for several days. A painstaking reading of back files discovered no harm the vessel might have taken.

The thing made no sense.

Commander of Agents disliked nonsense—intensely.

Eyes on the beacon screen, he considered whether it was more prudent to dispatch a second Agent to Waymart, or a team of lesser operatives, such as he’d already dispatched to Lufkit, where Agent yos’Phelium’s break from discipline had first manifested.

He had settled upon sending the team and indeed moved his hand somewhat toward the toggle that would summon his second to him when the beacon screen flashed. The amber light that denoted sig’Alda’s ship and its conditions flared bright, began blinking, and brought up windows full of warnings: system overload, weapons released, coils overcharged, Jump coil engaged, ERROR, ERROR ERROR—

Commander of Agents flung out a hand as if to make adjustments, to resolve the problem, to disengage the coils—too late.

Commander of Agents blinked, then leaned closer to read the message at the bottom of the black screen.

NO SIGNAL. TRANSMITTER DESTROYED.

SHALTREN:
Juntavas Headquarters

Sambra Reallen,
Chairman Pro Tem of the Juntavas, folded her hands upon the desk and looked up at her two large visitors.

“I regret that our actions on your behalf have as yet produced neither Scout Commander yos’Phelium nor Sergeant Robertson, Aged Ones. I would remind you—with respect—that the universe is wide.”

“Indeed it is,” rumbled the largest, who called himself Edger. “Yet I had anticipated speedy reaction from our kin. News of our search should most surely have reached them by now. Yet we have no word. No whisper of possibility. It distresses me, Sambra Reallen. I begin to believe our kin are perhaps lost more deeply.”

She drew a breath, careful not to let a start of alarm betray her. Had she not been present when these two beings destroyed both her predecessor and his weapon, and that with a mere three notes of alien song? What might they not be moved to, did they come to believe these claimkin of theirs dead?

“I think there no reason to consider them so profoundly beyond us,” she said, keeping her voice level with an effort of will that started sweat beading in her armpits. “Merely, they may have gone to ground on one of the lower tech worlds, where word of our search would not travel so quickly. Eventually, they must leave their safe place. And when they do, they will make themselves known to us.”

“And yet,” said the second turtle, with a diffidence that sat oddly upon one so large, “why should they so?”

Both Edger and the Juntava stared at him, at which he ducked his head, moving his three-fingered hand in a gesture of—apology, thought Sambra Reallen. Or possibly of obeisance to Edger, who was larger-shelled and therefore in a position of command.

Edger moved his own hand. “You have asked. Can you answer?”

The smaller—Sheather, his name was—raised his head. “T’carais, I can.”

“Do so.”

“Yes, T’carais. Consider that our sister and our brother are masters of survival, though pursuit of art renders them no strangers to violence.” He stopped and Sambra Reallen leaned forward, impatient for once of the mannerisms of long-lived Clutch-turtles, who might take as much as twenty human minutes for a pause of courtesy.

“Go on,” she urged and there was an edge along her voice, so that Sheather looked at her out of his great eyes, then inclined his head.

“You are correct. I ask forgiveness, that I am careless of your time.”

She waved a hand. “Granted. But say on—why shall your kin hide from us?”

“Why,” said Sheather, blinking his eyes solemnly, “only because when last our kin had treat with yours, the Juntavas did their most to slay them. Neither our brother nor our sister is such a fool that they would willingly place themselves into the hands of a known enemy.”

“Hah!” She sat back, staring at him and feeling dread like ice in the pit of her belly. For he was correct. Val Con yos’Phelium—a Commander of Scouts, no less!—and Mercenary Sergeant Miri Robertson had no cause to love the Juntavas, and many reasons to avoid them. The message the courier ships carried was, perforce, brief, and offered no reasons for the abrupt change of Juntavas policy with regard to the Turtles’ kin. Who would of mortal necessity be compelled to consider the message a sham—or bait—and thus exert themselves doubly to avoid anything even remotely attached to the Juntavas.

Edger was looking at her. “Do you agree with my brother’s summation, Sambra Reallen?”

She took a breath and met his eyes with what calm she could, who faced a being that could destroy her with a note. “Aged One, I do.”

“So.” He appeared to consider for a moment, then inclined his great head. “We shall go now, Sambra Reallen, to consider between us what might now be done to retrieve our brother and sister. Do you the same, of your kindness, and let us come to you again in three days’ time to compare thoughts and perhaps build a more worthy plan of action.”

They were not going to kill her out of hand? Relief left her giddy, yet she summoned the strength to stand, to bow. “Aged One, I shall be most happy to speak with you, three days hence.”

“So it shall be,” said Edger, turning ponderously toward the door. “I thank you for the gift of your time.”

“It is freely given,” she managed, though her legs shook with the strain of standing. It took them a few minutes to navigate the door. When they finally passed beyond the entry-eye, the door slid shut on its track and she collapsed onto her chair, uncertain whether to laugh, scream, or cry.

***

“It comes to me,”
Edger murmured into the soft silence of their evening habitation, “that you have thought more widely yet upon our sister Miri Robertson. Is it so, young brother?”

Sheather lay his hand flat, feeling the tiny rug fibers prick his palm. So many small bits of fluff, united in will to become a carpet!

“It is so,” he answered softly, and raised his eyes from the study of the rug. “In truth, elder brother, there is little else with which I may occupy myself, here in this time and place. We have set motion upon certain projects with regard to our brother and sister. And now we wait. At home, waiting is put to use, for the benefit of the clan. But here, there are no knives awaiting sheathes. There are no young to instruct or any elder requiring my aid. So, indeed, I have thought much upon our sister, and studied what I might of her history.”

This was rather a lengthy speech for Sheather, who was the most retiring of Edger’s many brothers. However, Edger merely inclined his head.

“Ah,” he said. “I would hear the tale of your study, if you would honor me, brother.”

There followed a pause, of middling length for Clutch, then Sheather spoke again.

“Miri Robertson, Mercenary Soldier Retired, Personal Bodyguard Retired, Have Weapon Will Travel.”

Edger moved his hand in acknowledgment. It was not so ill a name, for one yet young. A Clutch person who had seen his first Standard century might easily and without dishonor tend a lesser. Spoken fully, Edger’s own name consumed several hours. Edger had seen seven Standard centuries, start to finish, and his name was not yet complete. It was the tragedy of humans, that so many died before attaining even a tenth part of their name.

“I placed my attention,” said Sheather, “upon that portion of our sister’s name ‘Mercenary Soldier Retired.’ I discover that there is a database, elder brother, containing the active rolls of every unit of mercenary soldier registered with Command upon the planet Fendor. It is accessible from yon device.” He nodded across the room to the terminal built into the far wall.

“From this database I find that our sister holds the esteem of Suzuki Rialto, Senior Commander, Gyrfalk Unit and Jason Randolph Carmody, Junior Commander, Gyrfalk Unit, though she no longer holds herself at their word.” Sheather hesitated.

“I comprehend that the bond between our sister and these commanders of gyrfalks is that of kin, T’carais.”

“Ah.” Edger felt a flutter of what might have been called excitement. “And your studies led you to believe that Miri Robertson may have called upon her kin to shelter herself and our brother.”

“So they did,” Sheather acknowledged. “However, I felt my understanding to be yet imperfect and set myself the task of tracing our sister through the ranks of mercenary soldiers, in an effort to identify others of her kindred.”

“And has our sister other kin among the mercenary soldiers, younger brother?”

“One other,” Sheather said, and closed his eyes for a minute or six. Upon opening them, he resumed.

“This other is an elder, brother. She has known our sister since our sister was an eggling and stood as sibling to our sister’s mother. I believe, if our sister were indeed to seek shelter from her soldier-kin, she would seek it first from this elder.”

Edger considered this for a time, eyes slitted in the dimness. Across from him on the floor, Sheather sat respectfully silent, studying the weave of the carpet.

“It is well-reasoned,” Edger announced in the fullness of time. “Surely even so masterful an artist as our sister must seek an elder’s wisdom in the face of such difficulties as the Juntavas offered. An elder of quiet renown, based perhaps upon a backworld . . . such might offer greater immediate safety than the kin of our brother, who live busy and open upon Liad.”

“These were my thoughts as well,” said Sheather. “Most especially might they seek this elder, should one or both be in need of healing.” He held up a hand. “I heard the Juntavas say that neither was harmed, my brother. I heard the recording of our kin, stating the same. Yet my heart whispers that the Juntavas have lied to us many times. And how easy to compel our kin to lie, as well! Merely threaten either with further harm, did they not speak what was required. I think we may not assume our kin were unharmed, merely upon the word of the Juntavas.”

“You speak wisely,” Edger said. “Have you the name of this elder? Her location?”

“Her name is Angela Lizardi, Senior Commander Retired, Lunatic Unit Inactive. She makes her home upon the world called Lufkit.”

LUFKIT:
358 Epling Street

The doorchime sounded
loud in the cluttered room. Frowning, Liz lowered her book and raised her head, listening to the tinny echoes fade and die. She listened a moment longer, then bent again to her book.

The doorchime sounded.

Taking her time about it, she slipped a marker into the book, laid it atop several other bound volumes on the table beside her and levered out of the chair.

The echoes of the third chime were still fresh when she pulled open the front door to look out. And down.

Large violet eyes thickly fringed with dark gold lashes looked up at her. “Angela Lizardi?” The voice was as lovely as the eyes, low and seductively accented.

Liz nodded.

“I hope you will forgive this imposition,” said her caller, apparently oblivious to Liz’s lack of cordiality. “I am come on behalf of Miri Robertson. You are her friend. I thought you might consent to—help.”

Liz frowned and took a moment to consider the rest of the face: high cheeks, pointed chin, biggish mouth, complexion carrying the faintest blush of Liaden gold. The shoulder-length hair was a richer gold, but not as dark as the long lashes.

She pulled the door wider and stepped back. “Come in,” she said, and it sounded like a command in her own ears.

Her caller seemed to find nothing amiss in her manner; she stepped inside and waited patiently while Liz locked the door, then followed her back to the main room.

Liz sat in her chair and the little woman stood before her, putting her forcefully in mind of the last person to stand there. “Redhead’s Liaden,” she called him in her head, since he hadn’t told her any name. Liz very nearly snorted. Liadens.

“Well,” she snapped at this one, “you got my name. Let’s have yours.”

“I am Nova yos’Galan,” the woman said readily, and it seemed she was on the verge of something else, but stopped herself. Liz saw her right hand move, thumb rubbing over the ring on her second finger.

“And you’re here on behalf of Redhead,” she prompted.

“On behalf of Redhead,” the other repeated slowly, and moved her head, sharply. “Miri Robertson. And also on behalf of her lifemate.”

Liz blinked. “Redhead ain’t married,” she said flatly. “Not her style.”

“Her partner, then,” the golden woman persisted. “A dark man—green eyes . . .” She reached into a sleeve-pocket, offered a rectangle of doubled plastic.

Liz took it; sighed at the hologram it enclosed. Well, at least she’d find out his name.

“Or her friend,” the Liaden was saying, softly, almost pleadingly. “They were together . . .”

“He was here,” Liz admitted at last, looking from the picture to her visitor and back again. Even given the difference in coloring, the resemblance was striking. She handed the ’gram back.

“Relative of yours, is it?”

“My brother,” Nova said softly. “He was here some time ago, I think. Perhaps as much as a Standard?”

“No more’n six, eight months.” She shrugged. “Redhead sent him by to collect something. Her partner, is what she told me.”

“So.” The word was a hiss of satisfaction. “They were pursued at that time, though I am not certain of the nature of the trouble. It is known that they left planet, traveling together; that they disappeared together . . .”