Rock of Ages (17 page)

He had succeeded beyond his own cynical expectations, though he didn’t think the controversy was good for more than a day’s play. If Maijstral actually ended up in a duel and got killed, however, he could count on running the story for at least two or three days.

By then there might be some real news to broadcast.

“There are those who claim that you should be forced to apologize again for the nature of your remarks,” Mangula went on.

“Apologize for my
apology?
” Maijstral said.

Everyone, he realized, simply
everyone
, was trying to kill him. He was going to get a few necessities from his room, he decided, and move into Nichole’s suite and never come out. He would be surrounded by Diadem security until he left the planet. And then he’d recruit his own guards, a solid wall of muscle to stand between him and an inexplicably hostile universe. . . .

“Perhaps in view of the fact that you’ve been set upon by an outraged citizen,” Mangula led on, “you might consider an apology of greater depth and sincerity.”

“He was set on by
one drunken man
,” Nichole pointed out. “That’s hardly a lynch mob.”

Maijstral turned the corner just before his room, intent only on escape from this inquisitorial nightmare, and then saw, silhouetted against the distinctive, intricate design of the hallway’s Bludarsian Seawood paneling, a peculiar shift of light, of color, of pattern. A perfectly familiar shift, though usually he only saw it when he was stealing something and caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, cloaked by his darksuit. . . .

Triumph sang in his nerves.
Got you!
he thought.

Anger and exultation mingled in Maijstral’s nerves, a perfectly dangerous combination. The spitfire slid from his armpit into his hand with practiced ease. He flung himself prone on the carpet, and—as Nichole and Mangula yelped in alarm—Maijstral opened fire.

Got you got you got you!

Stylish energies flamed off invisible shields and scorched the walls. Alarms clanged. Bright purple fire-retardant foam poured from the ceiling fixtures. Whoever was in the darksuit fled as Maijstral poured fire after.

“
What
. . .” Mangula got out, and then there was the hum of a stunner—the burglar returning fire—and Mangula flopped to-the carpet, suddenly unstrung. Her sculptured hairstyle was melting rapidly. Her silver media globes thudded to the ground like overripe metallic fruit. The mystery figure disappeared around the L-intersection at the end of the corridor.

Mangula spoke with great effort and severity as Maijstral rose to his feet.

“Gleep,” she said.

“Call security!” Maijstral told Nichole—perfectly pointless after all this, but it would give her something to do and keep her out of the line of fire—and then he sprinted after the intruder, for all the world like the character that Laurence played in the vids.

His feet, slicked by the foam that was pouring from the ceiling fixtures, promptly slid out from under him and he crashed face-first onto the purple billows.

Laurence’s character never had these problems. Especially not when he was wearing a white suit.

“Fnerg,” Mangula said with satisfaction.

Maijstral rose and slid, slipped, and skated down the hallway. Presumably whoever was in the darksuit could fly, and would have got a good lead on him by now.

“Snerk,” Mangula commented.

As he approached the L-intersection he wondered whether to charge ahead or slow down and proceed cautiously in case the stranger was waiting there with a weapon. He opted for the better part of valor, but then to his alarm found that the slick foam under his feet wasn’t about to let him put on the brakes. His momentum carried him inexorably out into the intersection, and so he raised the spitfire and squeezed off a few more shots—suppressive fire, he hoped desperately—and then he slammed into the wall hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

“
Yibble!
” Mangula shouted triumphantly.

The intruder had long since fled. Maijstral’s shots had only caused more foam to rain down. He charged down the corridor, banged through a series of doors that looked suspiciously ajar, and then found himself in the submarine pen, a cavernous dome built on a plateau of white sand, with a tunnel leading downward and opening onto Palancar Wall.

There was a small private submarine diving into the tunnel amid a gush of bubbles.

Maijstral fired, causing a cascade of steam but no visible effect on the submarine other than to vaporize one of its running lights. The villain was getting away! Desperately he looked about for a submarine he could call his own.

“Submarine!” he shouted. “Open!”

Three unlocked canopies obligingly popped open, all small subs that Prince Hunac kept for the convenience of his guests. Maijstral hopped into the nearest, a colorful green two-seater with a transparent canopy.

“Power up!” he said. “Close hatches!”

“Very good, sir,” said the submarine. The instrument panel flickered to life. The controls seemed similar to an aerial flier—not surprising, considering that a submarine was just an aircraft adapted to another medium.

“Follow the submarine that just left,” Maijstral said. “Top speed.”

“Flank speed is not possible in the docking area.”

Maijstral clenched his teeth. Hard-wired safety mechanisms, in his experience, always led to frustration.

“As fast as possible, then.”

“Very good, sir.” The submarine cast off and thrashed toward the tunnel entrance. Air bubbled out of ballast tanks as it began to submerge.

“Do you carry any weapons aboard?” Maijstral asked hopefully.

Artificial intelligences are incapable of surprise.

“No, sir,” it said. So much for the cheerful fantasy of a volley of torpedoes to precede the submarine out of the tunnel.

The surface closed over Maijstral’s head. The submarine angled down toward the brightly lit tunnel.

“Hurry,” Maijstral urged.

“I am proceeding with all possible speed in view of necessary safety precautions.”

Maijstral could only hope that the intruder’s submarine was as obstinately safety-minded as his own.

The submarine entered the tunnel. The engine noise, magnified by the close quarters, throbbed in Maijstral’s head. He wiped purple foam from his white dinner jacket.

“Is there any possibility of establishing communication with the palace?” he asked.

“I could surface to extend a radio aerial,” the submarine offered.

“Never mind. Is there any way I could keep the palace informed of my location?”

“I could use active sonar.”

“Please do so.”

“It would be unsafe to use sonar in the tunnel. I will, commence pinging as soon as we reach open water.”

“Where is the other sub?”

“I have no readings on my sensors.”

The submarine floated effortlessly from the tunnel and into the astonishing blue of the open water. A horrid groaning noise ensued, causing-metallic objects in the submarine to rattle alarmingly, Maijstral’s nerves leaped.

“What was
that?
”

“A sonar ping, sir. Shall I discontinue active sonar?”

“No. Follow the other sub and keep on pinging.”

“Very good, sir.”

Another groaning noise rumbled through the sub’s frame. Why, Maijstral wondered, was it called a ping when it sounded more like a cetacean in the depths of some unspeakable gastric agony?

Running-lights appeared ahead. “I see a submarine!” Maijstral said. It was getting closer.

“That is the craft you have asked me to follow. It has suffered damage to one of its running lights, violating safety regulations, and its autopilot is returning it to the docking bay.”

Delight filled Maijstral. He had never felt like cheering a hard-wired safety mechanism before.

“Follow the sub into the dock, please,” he said cheerfully.

“Very good, sir.”

The two submarines passed each other, Maijstral’s sub groaning in welcome, and Maijstral peered from his cockpit for a glimpse of the intruder. He was disappointed: the stranger was still wearing a darksuit, and all Maijstral could see in the other cockpit was a camouflage hologram the color of the blue ocean, marred here and there by clumps of purple fire retardant.

The submarine itself was the same two-seater sport model as Maijstral’s, bright blue. Apparently the intruder hadn’t planned to make an escape by submarine and had been forced to grab the first sub available.

Then the intruder’s submarine gave a lurch, banked in an abrupt change of course, and sped off in a northward direction, increasing its speed.

“What happened?” Maijstral demanded: “I thought the other sub was returning to dock.”

“Someone must have overridden the submarine’s safety mechanisms. I will report this violation as soon as we reach our destination.”

“Follow that sub!”

“Very good.”

The stranger presumably had a full complement of burglar tools and the ability to override the programming of artificial intelligences. All Maijstral had were his pistol and a couple of knives he hadn’t as yet removed from their sheaths. Still, if he could keep the enemy in sight, marking his location with active sonar, he should be able to attract rescuers who would help him overcome the intruder.

Maijstral’s submarine appeared to be gaining on the intruder. Perhaps the intruder was not as good a pilot as Maijstral's autopilot. Maijstral’s heart cheered.

Then the intruder sub peeled away from the reef, diving and circling simultaneously. “Follow!” Maijstral commanded. Diving planes made adjustments and the submarine heeled over like a falcon stooping, in slow motion, on its prey.

The submarines spiraled down into the deep, one after the other. Blackness surrounded them. Maijstral had to crane his neck left or right to keep his target in sight.

He peered out to starboard and saw the other sub slip under them, still heading for the bottom, and then leaned out to port and, after a few seconds, saw the intruder reappear. But its orientation seemed, different somehow, and Maijstral’s brow furrowed as he tried to work out what had changed.

“It’s coming up!” he said.

Maijstral’s own submarine lurched as diving planes moved to a new attitude. “The other submarine is not following safe proximity procedures,” the sub said. “I will report it at the first opportunity.”

Maijstral’s heart gave a lurch. “What do you mean by safe proximity—” he began, desiring clarification.

“We are in danger of collision,” the submarine announced.

The other submarine’s silhouette narrowed as it presented its bow toward Maijstral. “It’s trying to
ram
us!” Maijstral yelped.

“Yes, sir,” the sub remarked conversationally. “I am commencing evasive—” Its tone changed radically as a clanging alarm began to sound. “Collision alert!” it shouted. “Prepare for impact!”

“Prepare
how?
” Maijstral demanded, his heart flailing as he saw the other submarine’s bow growing larger. “What am I supposed to—”

Bright yellow foam exploded suddenly into the cabin from a dozen inlets, covering everything and hardening almost instantly. Maijstral was frozen in mid-complaint, mouth half-open. Frantically, he tried to gulp air. There was a hideous crash and jarring that ran up Maijstral’s spine, and he felt the submarine roll alarmingly.

Maijstral tried to move, but he couldn’t. The foam had frozen him in place. He couldn’t see anything, but his sense of balance suggested that he and his submarine were inverted and heading for the bottom.

“Collision foam has been deployed,” the submarine said, voice muffled by foam. “It should be possible to breathe through it with effort, but it will dissolve in a few seconds.”

“
Hwa hoing hon?
” Maijstral demanded, mouth frozen with foam. The submarine nevertheless seemed to understand his demand.

“We have suffered damage to the diving planes,” the submarine said. “We are compelled to continue at a downward angle until we reach the bottom.”

Terror clawed at Maijstral’s heart. “
He’re hinking?
”

“Hull integrity is at one hundred percent,” the computer reported. “We will wait at the bottom until rescue can reach us. Please try to remain calm.”

“
Halm?
” Maijstral demanded. They’d been rammed by the enemy and were sinking, and Maijstral had been frozen into a block of quick-hardening foam, and he was supposed to remain
calm?

“
Halm?
” he demanded again.

The foam was beginning to loosen its grip. Maijstral fought to free one arm, then tore away bits of foam until he could remove the pieces around his mouth.

“What about the other sub?”

“It has also sustained damage. It has undergone an emergency blowing of its ballast tanks, and has made an uncontrolled ascent to the surface.” The computer adopted a bitter tone. “Its pilot will be severely disciplined when word of this reaches the authorities.”

Maijstral could only hope so.

For himself, he suspected that the first person he was going to see would be Colonel-General Vandergilt.

CHAPTER TEN

The first person Maijstral saw, as his submarine was towed back into dock, was in fact Colonel-General Vandergilt. The second was Prince Hunac, still in his feathered costume, and the third was Mangula Arish, who seemed pale and unsteady but whose media globes gleamed bright and ferocious.

Nichole was not to be seen. Probably Diadem security had her under lock and key.

The sub nudged up to the dock, and the canopy hissed open. Maijstral stepped onto the dock, and Prince Hunac ran up and hit him on the chest. The clenched hand bounced off without making much of an impression.

“Yes?” Maijstral said, puzzled.

Hunac thumped him again. He kept bounding up and down on the balls of his feet, and his bright-pupils looked bigger than his fists. “You abused my hospitality, you thief!” he screamed. “I challenge you!” He had lost his grip on High Khosali and spoke in Human Standard.

Maijstral realized that Hunac was only hitting him in the chest because he couldn’t reach his face. “Thief?” Maijstral said. He turned vaguely and pointed at the submarine. “But you got your sub
back
,” he pointed out.