Land of the Dead (20 page)

“Not in there, child.” De Molay attempted a smile, which made her cheek twinge. “Stowage bin beside the captain’s chair, the one with the broken lock.”

“Ah.” Hadeishi fished out three putty triggers, one of which was a remote-controlled detonator.
“D
ō
mo arigat
ō
.”
The triggers went into one pocket, the putty into another.

On the camera pane pointing down the gangway into the
Qalak
there was sudden motion. Mitsuharu leaned over, caught sight of four Khaid in z-suits strolling across the gangway, and motioned to De Molay. “Time to go,
Sencho-sana
.”

*   *   *

Moments later, with the bridge hatch propped open once more, Hadeishi was climbing down a service tube running between the decks, with Captain De Molay clinging to his shoulders. The old woman was light enough to carry, but no burden he wanted to freight for hours. A clumsy set of straps tied them together, and he could do no better with the time allowed.

He could feel, from the vibration of the ship, that the
Wilful
was underway, though her engines were still cold. Hadeishi assumed the
Qalak
was accelerating away from the ambush point and spinning up gradient. Hadeishi was hoping to find somewhere for them both to hole up before—

The dim lights in the shaft flickered—his stomach sprang up, reversed, and crawled back down his throat. De Molay groaned, her abdomen clenching in protest. She gagged, but managed to choke down the vomit.

“We’re away,” Mitsuharu said, when he felt steady enough to resume climbing down. “And who can tell where we’re heading?”

“I can,” De Molay wheezed, “if we can get access to a control panel in engineering.”

“
Hai, kyo
. At our first opportunity.” They reached a junction between decks and Hadeishi struggled to step off the ladder and onto the service door landing. De Molay had to help, grasping at a stanchion with her weak hands, while he navigated the corner. Then Mitsuharu keyed through the door and saw they had descended far enough to reach the lower cargo deck.

“Wait here,
kyo
,” he muttered, setting her down. “I need to set some insurance.”

Back in the maintenance shaft, he tore open a series of access panels until he found an orange-colored conduit the thickness of his wrist. Gingerly—who knew how stable the substance was!—he tacked the blasting putty behind the communications main and then wedged the remote detonator into place. Working his way back to the corridor, he closed and locked the entrance to the shaft and then checked the detonator relay.

Cupped in his hand, the status light shone a pale green.

“What did you mine?” De Molay asked, peering up at him from the floor. She was still too weak to stand.

“Main shipnet relay from the bridge to down below,
kyo
.”

“And how did you know it was there?” She was frowning, and had the old woman her full strength, her expression would have been formidable.

Hadeishi shrugged. “
Sencho
, I have many bad habits.”

Slinging her on his back again, Mitsuharu set off for his old quarters behind the fuel tanks.

*   *   *

Winter rain was pouring down, setting the mountainside streams to rushing, white-frothed torrents. Musashi was climbing the pass under Mount Murou, a plain wooden staff in each hand. A bitterly cold wind howled, nipping at his face, etching white streaks on the wolf-skin he wore as a cape. The old blind man clinging to his back was cursing endlessly, complaining about every jounce and jolt in the road as the swordsman climbed, step by step, his feet bleeding in the straw sandals, towards the summit of the pass. If he missed a step, the old man would strike the side of Musashi’s head with a begging bowl and shout—“donkey!”—over the hiss of the wind.

*   *   *

De Molay slumped into Hadeishi’s hammock with a relieved groan. Her face was very pale, her skin waxy. Mitsuharu pulled one of the bottles of Mayahuel from his leg pockets and popped the cap. The old woman drank noisily, but seemed a bit revived when he took the empty away.

The main engineering console had been shorted out, which Hadeishi found a crude but effective way to prevent its use, but the secondary panels were still active. He retrieved his stylus from a corner and keyed up the interface. “
Kyo
, what code should I use?” he asked, looking to De Molay.

“Hierusalem,” she said, and then spelled out the Latinate word for him. The panel quickened to life, showing a wholly different interface than he’d ever had access to before. Both of Hadeishi’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then he quickly navigated through the sensor options to find the transit display.

*   *   *

At the summit of the pass, where Toudai temple had once stood, there was a ring of shattered pillars and broken stones. Here the icy wind was howling like a demon, and the chill cut through Musashi’s cloak like a knife. Arrayed across the road, their own furs white and almost invisible against the blowing snow, stood a line of men with drawn blades. In his ear, Musashi heard the blind man sniff once, then twice. “Ah, idiot donkey—why have you angered the
shugenja
? Now we shall be late.…”

*   *   *

The engineering panel was not equipped to generate a full-up threatwell display, but Hadeishi could read the swarm of glyphs and icons as well as any Fleet officer. De Molay opened one eye, peering at him from the hammock. “Well, engineer’s mate, where are we going?”

“That, I cannot tell. But we have found company … two dozen Khaid warships, I would judge—some of them larger than I’ve ever seen under their colors before—and we are all on the same heading.”

He stepped away from the console, thinking. “I’m going to have to find a place to hide you,
Sencho
. The Khaid prize crew will come around soon enough.”

NEAR THE PINHOLE

Anderssen woke abruptly, finding herself in near-darkness, and for a moment she was certain the roof above was formed of bronze-colored metal, metal which gleamed and flickered with the light of constantly moving streams of flame. Something like wraiths, or fiery shadows, which moved throughout the tower around her, which tenanted the streets below, and darted through sullen, amber-colored skies above.

Her mouth was filled with a hard, metallic taste and she tried to muster enough spit to clear her palate.
Gods, what did I drink last night?
She could not remember drinking anything harder than tea.

Sitting in the darkness, Gretchen flexed her fingers, tied back her hair, and groped around for her comm band. She found the bracelet by touch and turned the device over. The cool blue glow of the readouts steadied her and the last of the flickering, flame-tenanted shadows faded from the edges of her vision.

“I see,” she said aloud, suddenly wishing she’d brought Malakar along to watch over her while she slept.
Or Parker, or Magdalena! Where are my friends, my team? In the old days I would never have hared off like this without them.
The thought brought her up short and Anderssen realized—with a chill shock—that she had placed herself in a very precarious position.
I am out here, in the middle of nowhere, with a crazy old sorcerer and a crew of religious fanatics, looking for … something … which by all rights ought be left well enough alone. Holy Mary of the Roses, what was I thinking? Magdalena would give me such a cuffing!

Then she decided that Hummingbird had jobbed her again with his measly five hundred thousand quills.
And why did he pay that out?
she wondered.
He must be desperate for … for a washed-up, out-of-work, out-of-her mind xenoarchaeologist. He could rent a graduate student from the Company for almost nothing!

The obvious reason was disturbing.
He knows about my talent, and how it’s grown. He’s expecting me to be able to find all of the pieces of some puzzle that would elude everyone else, even him. This is not going to be pleasant.

She clipped on her medband and comm bracelet, swung out of the tiny bunk, and found her jacket, comp, and other tools. The
Moulins
had been poking along in the dark, following an uneven, zigzag course for several days. But now, she had a sense the ship had stopped moving.
Have we arrived
? she wondered. “Time to find out.”

*   *   *

After a detour by the mess deck to fill her mug with hot, weak
kaffe
—the dispenser seemed programmed to produce the most wretched version of anything requested—Gretchen climbed the gangway to the control spaces. Captain Locke, the pilot, and Hummingbird were sitting, watching the navigational displays with varying degrees of boredom. The screens showing the exterior view of the
Moulins
were filled with gorgeous, glowing dust clouds in every shade of red, violet, and viridian. Streamers of iridescent material arced across the field of view. Embedded in the murk—were they distant pulsars, or stars almost swallowed by this wrack?—were hot points of light.

Anderssen slipped into the creaking, cracked-leather chair beside the old
nauallis
and strapped herself in.

“What’s happening?”

Hummingbird turned slightly, his weathered old face impassive. “We’ve found what seems to be an Imperial battle-group. Most of the ships are stationary, but some are working patrol patterns around this whole area.”

“But we’re waiting?” She felt itchy, knowing that the artifact—her life’s work if she could but touch it—might only be light-minutes away. “What for?”

“The right ship. And the right commander.” His voice was very low, only barely audible to her, even sitting in the adjacent seat.

“So, we’re thinking weeks parked here in the dark, watching the pretty lights?” Her light tone did not move him.

Instead, he nodded minutely. “If need be.”

A chime sounded from one of the console panels and a series of glyphs strobed on the main board. The pilot leaned over, interested. His stylus circled a moving icon on the display and the view focused in. Velocity and heading figures appeared in a sidebar.

“Reckless idiot!” Locke shook his head in dismay, and then eyed Hummingbird. “This the one you’re waiting for?”

“Target’s v is pushing the limit for this particle density.” The pilot sounded impressed. “It’s big and must be packing a serious set of deflector generators! I wonder if—”

Locke snorted, saying: “I don’t think he can see any better in this than—”

“Go dark!” Hummingbird’s voice was sharp as a knife and filled with an unmistakable tone of command. Without even thinking, the pilot jerked around in his seat, both hands busy on the controls. The level of ambient noise in the control space suddenly dropped and every light shaded down to a dull red, or turned off entirely. The sound of the air circulators ceased and the constant, low-level vibration in the decking stuttered and then died.

“Captain, we are at zero emissions,” the pilot reported in a low voice. “Gravity generators are cold. Engines are cold.”

Gretchen was interested in Locke’s reaction—Hummingbird had given direct orders on his bridge—but the freighter captain seemed unperturbed.
If he’d noticed at all?
Anderssen found that peculiar, but the captain had been treating the old
nauallis
very deferentially for the last week.
I need to look up what Præceptor means.

The icon on the navigation board continued to show swift progress and Gretchen, peering over Hummingbird’s shoulder, suddenly realized that another icon—one shining green with a blue band around it—must be the
Moulins
. Which meant …

On the camera screens, a point of blue-violet light suddenly became visible. As she watched, it grew in size, resolving into a black speck surrounded by a brilliantly colored corona of violently excited particles. The wake of the approaching starship quickly became apparent as a corkscrew-like fan of burning motes.

The pilot cursed, looking first to Locke and then to Hummingbird. “Radiation from that drive plume is going to slam us hard. We need to—”

“Hold position.” The Crow’s voice was steely and his demeanor inflexible. “They are blinding their own sensors with all that electromagnetic trash. If we remain still, they will race past, unknowing. Otherwise, we’ll be a fine target for a sprint missile or particle beam practice.”

Locke nodded, swallowing hard. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

Gretchen was glad—she’d had the thought before—she’d already had her quota of children.
Though just one more … no, it’s too late for that.

Twelve minutes later the
Moulins
groaned, her hull hammered by successive waves of particles—all hot and glowing with borrowed radiation—as the massive ship rolled past.