Korval's Game (13 page)

“Then you know more than I do,” Liz said. “Last I heard, he thought they’d be able to outrun whatever mess they were in. Said when Redhead left he was going with her. Glad to hear they got off Lufkit. He seemed sound enough, and Redhead’s no slack.” She frowned. “But you’re saying they didn’t get wide of it.”

“No. I am saying that they are presently—missing. They are not in places one would expect; they have not contacted appropriate persons. My brother has sent no word to his clan, or to—others.”

Liz straightened in her chair. “That means they’re dead.” It was suddenly hard to breathe, thinking of Miri dead.

“No,” said Nova yos’Galan again; “only that they are missing. There are indications that they may be missing for good cause. That they dare not send messages.” She took a breath. “I must ask a question of you, Angela Lizardi. Forgive the necessity.”

“OK,” said Liz, still trying to figure what kind of trouble was
that
much trouble, and where the girl would go to ground.

“It is in my mind,” Nova murmured, “that Miri Robertson is Liaden. My eldest brother tells me that it sometimes does happen that a half-blooded—even a full-blooded—Liaden will be born on—an outworld. Will have papers stamped ‘Mutated within acceptable limits.’”

Liz sat very still, staring at the lovely face before her, while her mind’s eye conjured up another face: Katy’s face; worn to fine, supple gold, stretched over a fragile bone frame.

“Redhead’s part Liaden,” she said slowly. “Robertson was Terran, no question. Katy could’ve been half-Liaden, could’ve been full—she never said and I never asked. Don’t even know for sure if she told the kid. Not the kind of thing you tell your kid, if you figured her to be stuck on Surebleak for the rest of her life.”

“But Miri Robertson
left
Surebleak!” Nova snapped. “Do you know the name of the clan? Katalina Tayzin? There is no such name within the clans, though a few might be possible, given accent, vowel shifts . . .”

Liz hesitated; thought again of Redhead dead. “Something,” she said, grudgingly. “Katy had a thing . . .” She closed her eyes, reaching for the memory. “Gaudy thing,” she muttered. “Flat disk. Enamel work. Fine stuff—that’s what I know now. Probably Liaden. Liadens do that kind of work—so fine you can hardly see the wires holding in the colors. Lots of colors . . .” She shook her head. “Never did make any sense of it.”

“It looked like this?” Nova held her ring out, room lights skidding off bronze scales and green leaves. Liz narrowed her eyes.

“Like that,” she allowed. “Different design, but that’s the idea.”

“Ah.” The Liaden woman nodded as if to herself. “Then Miri Robertson is descended from one in the line direct. The search becomes simpler.”

“That a fact.”

Nova glanced up sharply. “Do you recall the design of this disk your friend had, Angela Lizardi? If—”

“I’d know it if I saw it again,” Liz said lazily, watching through half-slitted eyes. “What’re you gonna do now?”

“Run a search across all clans, specifying disappearances of those in the line direct within the last—sixty—Standards. That done, I shall try to match ‘Tayzin’ and, if the luck is willing, my brother shall be found.”

“Not exactly encouraging.” Liz stood. “OK, let’s go.”

Nova stared. “Angela Lizardi, I regret—”

“Don’t have to. Redhead’s my kin, near as I have any kin, and she’s in trouble. Seems to me you’re just a little more concerned with recovering this brother of yours than you are about what happened to her. Come here snatching at vapor-trails, thinking the thing’s solved because you got a wisp of something to start a computer scan with—” She shook her head. “Seems like I got a responsibility to go along and assist the campaign, if you know what I mean. Make sure Redhead gets a fair shake, if and when we turn the pair of ‘em up.”

“It may be dangerous,” Nova said flatly.

Liz shrugged. “I ain’t out of practice with a gun, and I figure I still know a trick or two, hand-to-hand.” She looked down into her visitor’s lovely, cold face. “
Eldema
, your brother called me. That’s ‘first speaker,’ right?”

Nova nodded.

“So, if one of my clan’s missing and likely in some kind of jam, then I got a clear-cut obligation, don’t I? As First Speaker?”

A pause, followed by a sigh.

“That is exactly correct, Angela Lizardi. The obligations of First Speaker are quite clear.” Another sigh, and a glance at the watch she wore strapped to her wrist. “When can you be ready to leave?”

“Just let me get my kit,” said Liz.

LUFKIT:
Lufkit Spaceport

Their footsteps
echoed off the floor and reverberated in the corrugated metal walls of the service tunnel. Liz walked one step behind Nova yos’Galan, duffel slung over her right shoulder and service pistol on her belt, scanning over the little blonde’s head into the metallic dimness ahead.

The corridor bent and straightened in a abrupt dogleg, showing Liz the end of the tunnel and the vapor glow of port lighting against the blue-black drop of night.

Nova yos’Galan continued her rapid, steady pace; stepped over the edge of the tunnel into the yard and turned to the left, Liz just behind.

There wasn’t much doubt where they were headed; only one ship sat on a pad in this part of the yard—a sleek little scooter, the unfamiliar lines of which were lit by the honed brightness of a labor-spot, which also picked out several crimson coveralls.

“Thought you said you were ready to lift,” Liz hissed. “Looks like the maintenance crew ain’t done yet.”

The Liaden woman flung one sharp glance over her shoulder. “Maintenance crew! That’s a hotpad!”

And she was gone, running toward the spot and the three red-covered figures.

Liz blinked and swore and jumped after her. She’d figured the Liaden woman was in a hurry, but to go to the expense of a hotpad—a guaranteed short-order lift-off, anytime ’round the clock; and an assurance that no port maintenance crew would do anything but steer wide of the area—!

Ahead, Nova yos’Galan had checked; Liz came even with her. “Could be just a mistake,” she muttered, but her gut didn’t believe it, and her head was working the moves, given the three in sight; wondering how many were out of sight, around the other side; wondering if they were the fighting kind or the running kind. The Liaden woman didn’t even spare her a glance.

One of the coveralls turned, started, yelled, hand snatching at belt. The shot sang past Liz’s ear as the three of them bolted, fanning wide.

“I’ve got left,” Nova snapped and Liz was spinning, target marked; gun out and up; spitting—once—and she kept moving, swinging back toward center, crouching, gun ready. A shot chewed gravel at her feet and her answer jerked the man’s head up and back before he slammed flat and stopped moving at all.

The third coverall was down, Liz saw, straightening slowly: a huddle of blurred red in the leakage from the spot. Nova was running toward the ship.

The fourth one broke from behind the ship just as she came level with the spot.

Small, slim—Liaden, most likely; Liz thought, holding her fire—sprinting for the tunnel, no weapon out, no backward look.

Liz straightened. Scared stupid, she judged; might as well let her go.

By the spotlight, Nova yos’Galan spun, knees flexed, gun up and steady in a two-hand grip, picture-book perfect.

The slim runner was halfway to the tunnel, arms pumping.

A pellet pistol spat, once, and the runner stumbled, staggered another step forward.

The pistol spoke again—and the runner fell, arms flailing. Liz swallowed her yell; took a breath against the bile rising in her throat and walked, slowly, toward the spot.

***

Strapped into the co-pilot’s seat,
she stared at the perfect, golden profile; at the shapely hands, steady and certain over the unfamiliar board. Murder. Nothing but a senseless killing, no matter that Liadens rarely took prisoners.
Wouldn’t done any harm to let that kid go
, Liz started to say, and forced the words back down her own gullet. Not her business.

Nova flipped a toggle. “Tower, this is KV5625, Solcintra. Lift initiates in five seconds. Out.”

“Tower here, KV5625. I—umm—”

Liz kept the grin from reaching her face with an effort, trying to remember if she’d ever heard a pilot give the Tower clearance before.

“Is that a clear?” snapped Nova.

“I—yes,” Tower managed, with belated decisiveness. “You’re clear to lift, KV5625. Tower out.”

“Recorded. KV5625 out.” The toggle flicked off and quick golden fingers danced over the board, green go-lights glowing to life under the magic touch. Liz heard the teeth-aching screech as the magnetics kicked in; felt the pressure start—and was suddenly slammed back into her seat, shockstraps jerking tight.

“Ooof!”

Violet eyes flicked over her and the acceleration eased slightly. Liz took a hard breath against the pounding of her heart.

“You make that brother of yours look like a ray of sunshine,” she snarled, and saw again the runner falling, shot in the back, and the woman next to her calmly holstering her gun and turning to inspect the hull for damage.

Nova yos’Galan barely smiled. “Only wait until you meet my elder brother,” she said, hands flashing over the board. There was the barest shudder as the ship switched from magnetics to full power. “He takes an hour to say yes—and two to say no.”

“Terrific,” muttered Liz and tried to find a comfortable way to sit in the too-small chair. She gave it up about the time they achieved orbit and the power scaled down to maintenance; glanced over at the pilot’s station and took a deep, careful breath.

Nova yos’Galan sat rigid in her chair, fists clenched on the armrests, eyes screwed shut, lips pinched to a thin, pale gash. She was shaking. Hard.

Liz cleared her throat. “You get hit?” she asked, knowing,
knowing
that there was no way—

Nova started, eyes opening and closing immediately, as if the sight of the pilot’s board was too much for her to bear. She took a long, ragged breath and leaned woodenly back in the chair.

“I have never—killed—anyone before,” she said, and tried another breath.

“Aah, hell . . .” Liz thought about that one, suddenly seeing the runner’s death in a very different light. She unhooked the shockwebbing and pulled the flask out of her pouch; telescoped the lid to full extension and poured a healthy slug.

“Here you go.”

Violet eyes slitted. Liz pushed the cup toward her, encouragingly. Nova closed her eyes.

Liz sighed. “When Redhead—Miri—had her first action,” she said, keeping her voice conversational; “she had a slug outta here.”

The eyes opened again; locked on the cup. “Did it help?”

“The shakes,” said Liz, easily. “It helps with the shakes, girl. Ain’t nothing except experience helps with the other.”

One slim hand left the armrest, unclenched and took the cup. Liz nodded.

“You want to knock it back quick,” she advised. “Don’t go sipping at it like it’s some fancy, hundred-year-old brandy. All it is is kynak. Go.”

Obediently, Nova lifted the cup and threw it down her throat like medicine.

“Ah!” Tears started to her eyes, ran down her cheeks; she choked and Liz pounded her on the back, retrieving her cup in the process.

“Drunk like a merc!” she said cheerily and shook her head, abruptly more serious.

“Thing to remember is you don’t have to kill everybody on the field,” she said, keeping her voice easy, without judgement or condemnation. “Wasn’t any real reason to kill that last one. She was just running to get away.”

Nova shook her head, unlatched the webbing and sighed. “You do not understand.”

“So explain it,” Liz invited, still easy in the voice.

Nova sighed. “There is danger,” she said. “I told you that there was danger. My brother—there are—persons—hunting him. These—they fired on the First Speaker. It is the First Speaker’s duty to survive, to serve the clan.”

Liz stared. “First Speaker? Girl, I’m no First Speaker—that was just what Redhead’s Liaden—”

“
I
am First Speaker,” Nova said, flatly; “of Clan Korval. I could not take the risk.”

Liz thought about that one, too, as she unscrewed the flask and had herself a shot, and finally shook her head.

“I can see where you might think that. But you’re saying this brother of yours has got trouble of his own—in addition to the trouble him and Redhead were trying to lose?”

Nova sighed again, and leaned forward to stare at the piloting readout. “Circumstances are not quite clear, Angela Lizardi.” She glanced over, violet eyes bland and beautiful. “I have several matters to discuss with my brother, when I see him again.”

“Yeah,” said Liz, thoughtfully; “I can see that, too.”

DUTIFUL PASSAGE:
Jump

A certain awkward pride
suffused the ship. Shan felt it as an electric undercurrent as he approached the tower.

The ship’s mood disturbed him. Barely three hours ago they’d been escorted to their Jump point by Portmaster Vinikov’s hastily cobbled armada, and the crew—his crew of mannerly merchanters!—was inebriated with the glory of it.

He’d called battle stations; and it had become immediately and painfully apparent that there wasn’t a ship in-system that outgunned
Dutiful Passage
. Indeed, the ten military ships comprising their escort were badly outclassed: the
Passage
had three battle pods in reserve, with the others triple-targeted. They could have broken the system defenses, held the planet hostage.

Portmaster Vinikov and her fleet had held position until the
Passage
Jumped.

If he decided to turn rogue . . .

Shan shivered.

The problem was power.

Suddenly the crew was aware of the ship’s power. Suddenly, they had an inkling of Korval’s strength.

As would Korval’s enemies, of course, for such an escort could hardly go unremarked. Within days the galaxy would know that
Dutiful Passage
had pulled away from Krisko, the Tree-and-Dragon at every name-point, and transmitting not the neutral ID of a freighter, but the strident warn-away of a battleship.