Korval's Game (42 page)

The pain shot through her like jellyfish fire. She convulsed where she lay, back arching, and Shan swung over, holding her shoulders flat, reaching with Healer sense and then pulling back because their patterns were united in a beautiful alien arabesque, and Miri opened her eyes as the plane rolled by them, too fast, even if—

“
Val Con
!”

She screamed herself back into the plane, and fell onto the stick, pushing it forward with the last of her strength. The leather tether cut into her and she should be sure, but she knew she couldn’t move, no more, never again. . .

***

“Uncle,”
Alys said from the depth of the intercom. “Planetary Defense Unit says it’s taking down the meteor shield, following a successful strike at the enemy’s targeting computer.”

tel’Vosti stared. Sighed.

“Thank you, niece.”

“Yes. It also says that reinforcements have arrived.”

LIAD:
Department of Interior
Command Headquarters

Of the four assigned
to the detail at Jelaza Kazone, two were undergoing retraining. The report on the Commander’s screen indicated that one of those would quite possibly re-attain his pre-catastrophe condition. The other would not, in the informed opinion of the departmental senior overseeing the process, re-achieve his former level of expertise. However, the senior remained sanguine concerning that one’s eventual effectiveness as a first-line operative.

Not so, Agent yo’Zeamin, whom the Commander’s second had been obliged to dispatch in the antechamber of the Commander’s own office, nor Agent pel’Iso, fatally shot by a Solcintra Port security guard during an ill-conceived attempt to steal a Jumpship.

From the two presently undergoing retraining came a tale of horrific—nightmarish—event, alike in nothing save the overmastering sense of personal doom. One reported a disconnection with the physical world coinciding with an overriding need to flee.

The second stated that his head had begun to pain him and he had closed his eyes to ease the strain. When he opened his eyes, he found himself standing on the outside of Jelaza Kazone’s perimeter, near the place where he and the others had crossed over the evening before. Disbelieving, he closed his eyes once more. And opened them to discover himself on the ridge that marked the boundary to Korval’s Valley, with no memory of having walked there. He continued to function in this on-again, off-again manner until he was apprehended in Solcintra itself by a first-line operative, who took the precaution of locking him into a storeroom before placing the call to her cell-leader.

The most disturbing part of this unlikely occurrence, to the Commander’s eye, was that the expert’s report indicated the force in operation during the agent’s lapses of perceptual sense was the raw will of the subordinated native personality.

It was this Agent whom the expert felt might be adequately retrained to basic operative. The Commander frowned, touched the button to activate the line to his second’s desk.

“Commander?”

“Agent ven’Egut.”

“Undergoing retraining, Commander.”

“Yes. See to his termination. Unacceptable risk.”

“Yes, Commander.”

He cut the connection and swept the screen clear. Three Agents, lost to Korval. He would meditate upon the best answer to that. In the meanwhile, there was Agent yos’Phelium’s pet Terran to consider.

A match program placing the gene-set known as Miri Robertson against the Book of Clans had yielded an—interesting—piece of data.

The genes of Miri Robertson closely matched the genes of Clan Erob, Korval’s oldest ally.

This significantly altered the face of event—transforming an apparently chance meeting between yos’Phelium and a “Terran mercenary” into a bit of well-planned and long-standing subterfuge.

It also invested one place in all the wide galaxy with a reason for Val Con yos’Phelium’s presence.

Commander of Agents touched the speaker-button once more. “I will have four full Agents of Change in the mid-level meeting room in twelve hours precisely. Commander’s Priority.

“I will also have the history, decision point records, and current clan and strength particulars on the planet Lytaxin. I need full loyalty-compliance reports on any Agent ever on Lytaxin.”

“Immediately, Commander,” said his second. “Is there more?”

The Commander hesitated, considering three Agents wasted and likely a Korval dramliza responsible. Especial study was required there, with one mistake already laid to his account.

“Yes. I will have an overview of the current strengths of the various dramliz on planet, and a comparison of reputed powers. Also . . .” Here he hesitated. It would not do to disturb the balances quite yet. But, if Anthora yos’Galan were to call due a debt from another dramliza. . .

“Also please refer to me, for tomorrow’s morning briefing, our contingency plans for dealing with the guilds and halls.

“That will be all for this moment,” he concluded, and closed the line.

LYTAXIN:
Erob’s Clan House

The orders
had come from the captain’s own lips, and so, on the morning of the sixth day following the battle of the airfield, Nelirikk left the bunker-like infirmary beneath Erob’s house and went out into the open air.

He marched with a steady step, eating one of the wonderful pastries the house cooks had brought to the captain’s room. He wore a lieutenant’s bar and captain’s aide insignia, as well as the green scarf at his left shoulder—the troop-sign of The Irregulars—and a Tree-and-Dragon which the captain had very nearly been able to pin on him without assistance.

The orders. Orders. He was so pleased that she was able to give orders that he would have marched to every mountaintop on the planet for her.

“Get outta here,” she’d rasped, pale against the pale pillows that supported her. “That’s an order. Eat an extra dessert or two. That’s an order. If you need something to do, go down the airfield and see what’s cookin’. I don’t want you back in this room before tomorrow unless you got a real good reason.”

Her wounds were like unto a pilot’s wounds. During those long hours of grief and waiting, when it was thought both would pass on to duty’s reward, the Healer who was a star captain and a soldier had explained to him about wizards and the bond of lifemates. Yet, had not he seen the very real burns from the tie belts, the black eyes and pulled skin of high acceleration . . . Strange indeed were the lives of those who guarded Jela’s Tree.

The world was strange now: Troops in good order patrolled, and while some looked on him warily, none barred his way. The air was good, the sun a pleasure, and he had elected to walk, as the captain’s purpose had clearly been to insure his value to the troop and to preserve his health while she slowly regained her own.

The way he had chosen brought him to a ridge, and a view reminiscent of his not-so-long-ago vantage in the 14th Conquest Corps command shack when the courageous, silly plane had struck back with honorable intent against the Corps, and the scout’s vessel had flung Jela’s own challenge at the sky.

The valley was full of planes and ships of various sorts, for the mercenaries were taking no chance that the 15th would come to finish the campaign the 14th had started. There were missile units and fighters, and one odd small ship which he guessed to be the courier or personal vessel of a commander.

The blast crater where the scout’s ship had been was already, and wisely, being recycled into a foundation for some new structure.

Was it a trick of his mind or was that not a scout ship dropping quickly into the valley?

His heart nearly crawled into his throat in admiration of those lines. One day, perhaps the captain would permit him inside such a vessel.

He finished the pastry in a gulp, watching as the scout ship set neatly down on the near edge of the field. In a moment he began to run.

***

There were three
of them
standing by the ship in casual uniform when he arrived: a woman and two men, all Liaden, all pilots by their stance and alertness, speaking with a soft Erob official. The official was pointing to a spot of trees and Nelirikk heard, “Fighters . . . only defense left . . .” as he slowly approached the group.

The two men were surely of the elder pilots. One carried a cane, the other grew a mustache on his face, as if he were Terran. Both showed gray in their hair. Both were weeping openly, as the woman stood sober-faced and watchful.

Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she moved a hand, gently and with purpose. The men turned to face him, instantly alert to threat.

Nelirikk saluted.

The Liaden with the mustache—surely the first Nelirikk had seen—stood as if under great strain, face wet with his recent tears. The other man was both more at ease and more dangerous: his eyes quickly touched lieutenant’s bar, scarf, Tree-and-Dragon, then lifted to Nelirikk’s face.

Momentarily Nelirikk felt as he had when the captain had first walked round him. This one could take his life in a moment if need be. This one, by Jela—

“Nelirikk Explorer, Lieutenant First Lytaxin Irregulars,” he stated in the Liaden High Tongue. “May I be of service, scouts?”

The three looked between themselves, and as one, they bowed, equal to equal as he had learned it. The Erob official took this as a good sign and removed herself quickly from the scene.

“Shadia Ne’Zame, Scout Lieutenant, First-In,” the woman said, laying her hand over her heart. “Clonak ter’Meulen, Scout Commander,” said the man with the most tears. “Forgive my display, Lieutenant. I have heard just now that my daughter died here.”

The third looked him over very carefully, and drew from some inner pocket a hand on which gleamed a single, silvery ring. He opened his palm, displaying a pin which was the twin of the Tree-and-Dragon Nelirikk wore.

“I, too, serve Tree-and-Dragon, Nelirikk Explorer, and am at some pains to recall your name among our lists.”

Nelirikk stood rooted, as if he faced the very scout, the scout who—

“I am recently recruited, sir. I am personal aide to Captain Miri Robertson, First Lytaxin Irregulars, who is lifemated to Val Con yos’Phelium, Clan Korval. I serve Line yos’Phelium.”

Gently, the scout lieutenant sighed. The man with the mustache shook his head, Terran fashion, and looked piercingly at the man with the dragon in his hand.

“Clans revert to type, my friend. So here we have a true Soldier and if that ship over there isn’t a Juntavas courier—a pirate, in plain speaking—I’ll eat my coord book.”

Ignoring his companion’s speech, the nameless scout bowed deeply.

“Sir,” he said to Nelirikk, “I must put myself in your hands and beg the grace of an introduction to your captain, she who lifemated Val Con yos’Phelium, for I, too, am pledged to line yos’Phelium. Where may she be found?”

“Sir, she is in the infirmary, recovering from wounds received in the recent glorious battle.”

“Is she able to speak with me? Or perhaps her lifemate might speak with me.”

“The captain is now allowed visitors. I think it likely that she would speak with scouts, although I cannot guarantee. Her lifemate . . .”

He paused, recalling what had been brought out of the Pilot Elite fighter.

There was sudden bleakness in the air, and the face he looked down upon was very close to one he knew in its bland intensity.

“Her lifemate, sir, is in the sealed autodoc. The medical technicians expect he may be able to speak next week, and perhaps in a month to walk.”

The air warmed, the face before him all but smiled.

“Then I am persuaded you should take me to his lady with all speed.” And abruptly the shift came, from High Liaden into the tongue of the Troop.

“Soldier, do your duty well, for your charge is a heavy one.” He bowed, and the language was again Liaden, in the mode the scout’s brother had taught him was called ‘Comrade.’

“I am very pleased to see you, Nelirikk Explorer. My name is Daav yos’Phelium.”

AUTHORIAL DENIAL

The book
you have just finished reading is not our fault.

We freely admit that
Conflict of Honors
,
Agent of Change
, and
Carpe Diem
—the first stories in the Liaden Universe—were our fault. Yes, we committed those stories—and others. We’re not ashamed.

But having committed those stories—and seen them published, back in the late 80’s—we were told by our publisher that the numbers weren’t there. No one had read our books, that means in Publish-Speak. And, since no one had read the first three, the outlined fourth—and the proposed fifth—would not be needed.

We don’t pretend that this news wasn’t a blow—even a severe blow. But life goes on. We had moved to Maine just before
Carpe Diem
came out; we busied ourselves exploring our new state, landing—and losing—gainful employment, buying a house, and adding cats to the household as appropriate. Amid it all, we wrote.

Steve wrote computer columns, features, book reviews, brochures, web pages, and advertising. Sharon did some of that, some of the other, some more of something else. That was for other people.

For ourselves, we wrote Liaden stories. Over dinner, during drives in the country, one or the other of us would break out of conversation, or reverie, with, “Story stuff. What if. . . ?” We fine-tuned the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct, argued esoteric points of melant’i, painted in scenes, and met some wonderful characters.

Let’s be clear here. The Liaden Universe is where our hearts are. Home. Yxtrang, DoI, Aunt Kareen, and all.

Sometime during all this life-going-on time, the rights to our novels reverted to us. Sometime a little later, the internet arrived in Maine and we—electronic communications addicts from the old days of neighborhood bulletin boards—drove on up to join the party.

Within days, we were deluged—a phenomenon that continues to this day, though it has slowed to a gentle shower—with e-mail. “
Are you the
Steve Miller?
The
Sharon Lee? When’s the next Liaden book? When is
Plan B
coming out?”

One of our early correspondents put together an electronic list for discussion of things Liaden, and so the Friends of Liad were born. From them, we began to understand that people
had
read our books—and wanted more.