An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) (21 page)

“You know, I hate these colors,” Ari growled, waving a hand at the ship. “Putrid purple and gruesome gray. What idiot do you think designed this thing?”

Yosef pulled his spectacles low on his nose and turned down the pleasant music he’d been listening to so he could examine his friend. Ari slumped in the commander’s chair, long legs sprawled like tentacles across the carpet. His white hair stuck out at odd angles. A beer sat propped precariously against one of the red levers on the control console.

“Huh? Who do you think? That worm-brained captain?”

“What’s
the matter with you?” Yosef growled, waving a hand.

“What?”

Yosef’s eyes narrowed. “Here we are,
prisoners,
and you talk about colors! I thought you were working on an escape plan?”

Ari belched and leaned back in his chair, smiling conspiratorially. “I’ve already got it figured out.”

“Well?”

“You told me you didn’t want to hear it again.”

“You imbecile! Were you going to tell me that same stupid idea?”

“You haven’t heard the latest amendment.”

“The only thing I want to know is if you’ve figured out how to keep us from getting killed
after
we blow up the spaceport and
before
we crash-land at Zadok’s?”

Ari worked his brows up and down, grinning. “Sure.”

“No!” Yosef threw out his hands. “Don’t tell me. I can’t bear to listen to another one of your harebrained—”

“You’re just jealous because you haven’t thought of anything,” Ari pointed out smugly, crossing his arms in defiance.

“You know what happens when both of us think at once? We end up in trouble.”

Ari snickered, then swigged down his last drops of beer, making a ghastly sucking sound at the end. He tossed the bottle into the pile. Yosef gave him an irritated glance, then pushed up from his seat to hobble back and forth across the tiny cabin.

“I can’t figure out why they’re keeping us so long. All our papers are in order and we’re—”

“They haven’t caught that Underground leader they’re looking for.”

Yosef squinted. “What Underground leader? Where’d you hear that?”

“From that ugly little marine who came up this morning.”

“The one you threw out?”

Ari waved both hands emphatically. “He was a bozon. He tried to tell me I couldn’t sing Gamant religious songs over the ship’s loudspeaker to greet incoming ships. The twerp. He’s lucky I didn’t—”

“Ari, blast it! What did he say about the Underground leader?”

“Oh … he said they hadn’t caught him yet.”

Yosef squeezed the bridge of his nose in exasperation, then whispered, “What was the leader’s name?”

His friend lifted a bony shoulder in a shrug and said through a yawn, “I don’t think he trusted me enough to tell me.”

Yosef stared.

“Besides, he didn’t actually call the man an Underground leader. You know how these Philistines are. They get things mixed up. Let me see?” Ari rubbed his wrinkled chin. “I think he said ‘a Gamant agitator.’”

Yosef waddled to sit in the chair next to Ari. “I wonder who it is? It could be somebody we know.”

“Like who?”

“Like maybe Sariel Loman or Ruth Wilo. Both of them were born on Tikkun, remember? I used to sing with Ruth’s father, old—”

“What does it matter?”

“It could matter a lot, you dolt. You know how the Underground goes around rescuing children from those horrible schools the Magistrates put them in, and brings food and supplies to developing planets the government has embargoed because they stick to the Old Ways.”

“Sure. So what?”

“What if the Underground is planning a raid here on Kayan?”

“There aren’t any Magisterial schools on Kayan. Are there?”

“Not that I know of … but how would I know? Zadok is too busy to write much and—”

“Hey!” Ari’s eyes gleamed suddenly. “You think maybe we’re going to be in the middle of a fight? Eh, you think so?” He spun in his chair and started jiggling several levers and pretending to punch buttons. “I know just the switches to hit! See this green one?”

Yosef read the label and puckered his mouth in disdain. “Quit slapping at that! You want to blow us up?”

Ari sat forward, straightening the lapels of his blue suit. He cocked his head cleverly. “You just think I don’t know how to run this ship. I’ve been making a study of all these dials and …” He stopped, blinking at the ship’s portal as he leaned slightly out of his seat.

“What’s the matter?” Yosef turned to follow his gaze.

“Did you see that?” Ari got up and peered out the circular window into the growing fog. “Look! There he is again.”

Yosef trotted to crowd next to him, pushing his spectacles up and squinting into the fog. “Who?”

“I don’t know his name!” Ari blurted and pointed. “But it’s one of those ugly marines. He just ran from that ship over there to hide behind that big crate. Wait and you’ll see him move again.”

“Bah!” Yosef spat, seeing nothing but wavering mist. “Your eyes are just another part of you that’s stopped working.”

“What do you mean, another
part?
At least when I take Agnes out on a date she’s got something to think about.
All
of me works enough to scare the bejeezus out of—”

“Everything except your brain.”

A shrill explosion of rifle fire buffeted the landing field. Brilliant violet beams split the fog, forming a deadly luminescent web around
Seros.
Yosef stumbled back, hands sliding off seats, to fall to the floor.

“My God!” Ari shrieked. “They’re shooting at us!”

As Jeremiel hit the fence, the pad came alive with running soldiers. The ground in front of him jumped, a furrow slashing the wet soil. Screams of “There he is!” and “It’s Baruch!” tore the air.

Throwing himself over the barrier, he landed hard on the wet surface. As he ran, he spied a marine leaning from behind a crate, rifle leveled. Panicked, Jeremiel jerked the trigger of his pistol. The shot went wild, exploding the crate, sending boards flying. He fired again and this time, the stench of burning flesh met his nostrils.

God damn, there’re so many.

He dove for the ground as a beam crackled by his leg. Rolling frantically, he leaped to his feet to run. But he couldn’t avoid the next shot. It took him from behind, slamming his thigh and hurling him back to the ground. Blood flowed hotly down his leg, the wound gaping.

“Oh, my God, my God,” he groaned, stunned. He slithered on his stomach, struggling to reach the transport that stood no more than ten feet away now.

Fear knotted in his stomach. The shot had deliberately wounded, not killed. They had orders to take him alive.
That’s why the marine on the street didn’t kill me when he had the chance.

Another shot struck the landing gear of the transport. The ship listed sideways, suspended for a moment, before it crashed down.

A swarm of marines rose and rushed and in that instant, he knew it was over. He couldn’t reach the ship. They had him surrounded. He licked his lips, futility sweeping him, but he kept crawling out of habit. “Never give up. Never.” The possibility of capture by the Magistrates terrified every Gamant rebel. The mind probes wrenched information from a person’s memories at horrifying cost to the personality centers of the brain. He’d raided the Retraining Centers for such vegetables. But his own life mattered little. What he knew mattered greatly. Ten minutes beneath the probes and he could jeopardize the entire Underground movement.

As the marines neared, he lifted his pistol and laid the barrel against his temple. An eerie calm came over him. He saw the marines’ eyes widen, their steps falter, and vaguely heard someone shout,
“Stop him!”

Then, as though in a dream, the ground trembled and a violet beam shot from the transport vessel. The shot blasted the terminal, shattering the building. A roar erupted as flames lanced the fog.

Marines screamed and ran for cover as the second shot exploded a nearby ship, then panned erratically to the right, bursting crates and shattering another building. The landing field writhed with shouts and pounding boots.

An instant latter, all sounds stopped as a shimmering wall snapped on around him. He shook his head violently, staring in disbelief.

“Shields. Blessed Epagael,” he murmured in awe. “Somebody in that ship is on my side.” With all his dwindling strength Jeremiel pulled himself toward the vessel, watching idly as the marines’ fire splashed the shields in purple waves.

When he reached the entry, it magically opened and an old man with spectacles low on his nose gingerly came down the lopsided steps, clinging to the railing. Suspiciously the elder demanded, “What’s your name?”

“I… Jeremiel Baruch.”

“Ah, of course,” the man shouted gleefully and smiled. “I knew your father, too! Hurry, son, we haven’t much time.” The old man helped him to his feet, supporting him as they climbed into the ship. As the hatch snapped shut, the elder turned suddenly, eyes going wide, and blurted, “You do know how to fly this thing, don’t you?”

Jeremiel started to nod, but another old man, tall and lanky and with a mop of gray hair, yelled. “I know how to fly it, you old fool! I figured out the weapons and the shields, didn’t I?”

“You couldn’t fly … !”

Jeremiel ignored them, blinking at the brilliant lights in the ship. When the soldier’s shot took out part of the landing gear, everything loose had tumbled into a pile at the far side. Garbage stood heaped two feet high. Hanging onto seats and consoles, Jeremiel slid, dragging his injured leg, to drop into the command chair. “Do be seated, gentlemen. We haven’t time to discuss this.”

“Wait a minute! I’m the captain! I’m going to …”

Jeremiel hit the acceleration switches and the ship lifted through the mist, then shot away across the dark, starstrewn skies of Kayan.

CHAPTER 12

Ornias poured himself a glass of Cassopian sherry and leaned gracefully against the ten-foot-long ebony table. In the harsh light of the lustreglobes, the silver threads of his sapphire robe glittered. Running a hand through his neatly parted brown hair, he smiled and drank, relishing the honeylike sweetness as he looked idly around the stone room. Crimson slabs of sandstone extended twenty feet long and fifteen wide, stretching twelve feet high to touch the ceiling. The coppery scent of blood and the sickly sweet odor of vomit penetrated the room.

“Have you ever tried this sherry? Marvelous stuff.”

Only an echoing silence greeted his query which made him smile. He blinked contemplatively at the colorful array of torture devices from around the galaxy. They lined the walls like irregularly hung pictures. He preferred the terrors of the Old Ways, believed them more persuasive. As a result, most of his utensils sent his captives’ imaginations whirling back to the Dark Ages of old Earth. Battle axes, maces, thumbscrews, and a variety of knives adorned his collection, scattered among more recent technological innovations.

“Silence is death in your case. You know that, don’t you?”

Chains jingled and Ornias took another leisurely sip of his sherry, before shifting his gaze to his captive. The rebel hung a foot off the ground, shackles biting into his wrists and ankles. The white bindings of his wounds hung in tattered filthy rags, dark umber flesh protruding from beneath. A sheen of sweat covered his handsome face. His once bronze hair draped in a greasy matted mass about his face. Yet his green eyes gleamed, hatred pouring out.

Ornias sighed and strolled across the floor to stand before the rebel. “Shadrach, please, be reasonable? This is getting you nowhere. Tell me only—”

“Go to hell.”

Ornias smiled condescendingly. Did these rebels never learn? Their stubbornness forced him to dole out more and more punishment. Even though it seemed to have no effect, their suffering made him feel better, provided him vengeance for the pain and irritation they caused him. “There isn’t any supernatural hell. Or don’t you know the teachings of Milcom?”

Shadrach braced his head against the wall and stared at the ceiling. His sparse brown beard shook with the strength of his emotion. “Milcom is a bastard god.”

Ornias moved closer. Despite the man’s remarkable endurance, he did have weaknesses. Like all of his kind, he had a menial hive mentality. “Don’t you want your other comrades in arms to survive?”

Shadrach squeezed his eyes closed, obviously running faces and memories through his mind. Ornias watched the tortured twitches of the muscles around his lips with satisfaction.

“My guards have captured Samual Linstrom.”

“Samual?” Shadrach inquired weakly, squeezing his lids tighter as though against pain. “He’s barely fifteen. He knows nothing of the depth of our movement. Let him go. What can you possibly—”

“But he’s such a
good
boy, don’t you agree? Kind to a fault, he’s worked his way into the heart of every rebel in your organization.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”