Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds (34 page)
Read Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds Online
Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald
BOOK: Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds
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“Break—new subject. Coded text incoming. Stand by to capture immediately. This text will be transmitted only once. I repeat, stand by to capture immediately—”
“Get ready to grab it,” Gil said to the comms tech. He looked over his shoulder for Jhunnei. As usual, his aide was there, seeming to materialize out of the background as easily as she faded into it the rest of the time.
I wish I knew how she does that
, he wondered—again, as usual—and said aloud, “We’re going to need the code-book for this one. Have you got it?”
, he wondered—again, as usual—and said aloud, “We’re going to need the code-book for this one. Have you got it?”
The lieutenant held up the palm-sized scanner/breaker unit. “Right here, Commodore.”
“Good,” said Gil. Inspace Control was back to sending the orbital data now, and the comms tech was handing him a sheet of printout flimsy.
The coded message was several lines of letters and numbers with no pattern to them that Gil could make out. Jhunnei handed him the codebook, and he ran the unit’s scanner over the message.
The codebook beeped.
“Got it,” he said, and looked at the unit’s minuscule screen for the plaintext version.
FOR COMMODORE. REPORT IN PERSON TO EMBASSY SOONEST. AMBASSADOR SENDS.
Gil hit the codebook’s Wipe button and the plaintext vanished. Crumpling up the sheet of flimsy, he dropped it into the nearest recycler and turned to Jhunnei.
“Pack an overnight bag, Lieutenant. We’ve got an important engagement. Dress uniform with all your medals.”
Improvised staff in hand, Klea paused in the doorway for one final glance back at her apartment. This would make the second occasion in her life when she’d abandoned everything in order to look for something better.
“Let’s hope I have more luck this time,” she muttered under her breath.
“There’s no such thing as luck,” said Owen. “We make our own choices, for good and for bad.”
“Yeah—and my track record as a chooser isn’t exactly the galaxy’s hottest.” She shifted her day pack into a more comfortable position on her shoulders. “We might as well get going before I lose my nerve.”
They stepped out into the hallway, and started down the stairs to the street. Halfway down the flight to the second-floor landing, Owen halted. Klea almost bumped into him.
“What—?”
In the dim glow from the light panel at the top of the stairs, she could see him frowning slightly. He held up a hand for silence, but all she heard was her own breath and the sound of her heartbeat in her ears.
“Someone’s waiting outside the front door,” he said.
“How can you tell?”
“I can sense them,” he said. “What people think and do shows up in the pattern of things. It’s mostly a matter of knowing where to look.”
She nodded—not really understanding him, but supposing that she’d learn more about it eventually in this new life she seemed to be headed for. “So what do we do?”
“We go up onto the roof,” he told her. “There’s a ladder and a trapdoor, for when somebody has to fix the lift.”
“Nobody’s fixed the lift for as long as I’ve lived here.”
“So much the better,” Owen said. “They won’t be expecting anybody to go that way. Then we cross over and go down the fire escape on the other side.”
He looked back down the stairs, and then at her again. “You lead; I’ll follow and keep an eye out in case somebody comes in after us.”
Klea swallowed. “Sure.”
The stairs felt a lot steeper and darker going up than they had on the way down. Halfway to the third floor, she turned and looked back. Owen wasn’t anywhere in sight; she supposed he was hanging back and keeping watch, like he’d said.
She took a tighter grip on the broomstick staff and kept on climbing. Her footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell. She was on the third-floor landing now—only one more set of stairs and she could wait for Owen by the ladder to the roof.
But out of the shadows ahead of her stepped a man in a black hooded robe, his features hidden by a dark plastic mask. Laughing, he held up a short staff of dark steel-bound wood before him. Red fire ran along its length, and its flame-colored aura limned him in a nimbus of gory light.
“Little girl,” he said, “you’re only pretending to be an Adept. If you’re all that Ransome has left to send, then surely our day is near at hand.”
Klea was afraid—more afraid than she’d ever been in her life; not even the worst of the streets had been able to scare her as much as this—but it was a strange, cold fear without the familiar edge of panic in it. The black-robed Mage took a step toward her; she took an involuntary step back.
Then she halted.
Where am I going? There’s only the stairs, and another man at the front door.
She clasped the grrch-wood broomstick before her, and stood her ground. A picture filled her mind, cool and strange, like the fear: Owen, moving through the steps of the ShadowDance.
The ShadowDance, which could also be used as a weapon—which could also be done with a staff—
—and she moved without thinking into the Dance’s first sequence, bringing up her hands and the staff with them. In the next instant she felt a stinging in her palms as the grrch wood caught and stopped a blow.
The shock brought her out of her half-trance in time to see an orange-yellow light, pale but there, tracing down the length of her staff, and the Mage drawing back his arm for another strike. Desperately, she groped with her mind for the next step in the Dance. This time she couldn’t find it.
I’m going to die
, she thought.
, she thought.
But in the moment before the Mage’s staff came down, he seemed to stagger and bend backward. His arms flew wide and he dropped his staff. For another second he hung there. She heard a cracking sound, not loud but clear and distinct in the awful stillness. Then he dropped like a broken doll to the floor, and the crimson light around him faded as he died.
Now, where there had been only shadows a moment earlier, Owen stood. The Mage’s body lay crumpled at his feet. Klea stared and backed away.
“How did you get there?” she demanded shakily. “I didn’t see you anywhere. And what did you do?”
“I broke his neck,” Owen said. He was looking down at the body of the Mage with an intent, thoughtful expression—nothing like his usual almost absentminded regard. He glanced up at her briefly.
“I was walking behind you the whole way; you just didn’t see me, and neither did he. When his whole mind was set on the fight in front of him, I slipped past both of you and took him from behind. Misdirection, mostly—it’s an easy trick, compared to some things. I’ll teach it to you later.”
Bending down, he picked up the Mage’s staff and propped it against the wall so that the metal-bound wood made the long side of a triangle. Then he stamped down and broke the staff in the middle. The two pieces clattered to the floor.
“That’s done,” he said. “Let’s go.”
NAMMERIN: NAMPORT OPHEL: SOMBRELIR
N
OBODY BOTHERED Klea and Owen on the way to the port. She wasn’t sure whether it was because nobody was trying, or because of something Owen had done to confuse the pursuit. She didn’t ask; the answer wasn’t going to make a difference, so why bother? Another question, though, was nagging at her too much to ignore. By the time they had passed through the gates and had almost reached the main terminal building, she had finally nerved herself to speak.
OBODY BOTHERED Klea and Owen on the way to the port. She wasn’t sure whether it was because nobody was trying, or because of something Owen had done to confuse the pursuit. She didn’t ask; the answer wasn’t going to make a difference, so why bother? Another question, though, was nagging at her too much to ignore. By the time they had passed through the gates and had almost reached the main terminal building, she had finally nerved herself to speak.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Owen didn’t break stride. “Understand what?”
“Why those people—the Mages—want to keep us from leaving Nammerin. If you’re dangerous to them as long as you’re here, I’m surprised they aren’t delighted to see you go.”
“Some things are more complicated than that.”
Klea sighed. “
Everything
’s more complicated than that these days. I should have stayed on the farm.”
Everything
’s more complicated than that these days. I should have stayed on the farm.”
“Your life might have been safer that way,” Owen conceded. “But mine would have been shorter, if you hadn’t been in Namport to find me lying in that alley.”
“Not really,” she said. She’d had plenty of time to consider this over the past few weeks. “You’re tougher than you look; you’d have still been breathing when the garbage truck came through in the morning.”
He didn’t answer. The terminal building was just ahead of them now, and beyond it the arc lights on their tall poles were casting a stark white light over the landing field. Coming early had been a good idea: there was already a small but noisy crowd gathered outside the doors of the terminal. Out on the field, there was only one ship in port that Klea could see, and no shuttles waiting to ferry stuff back and forth to the larger craft that never left orbit.
“If that clunky little freighter is the only thing in,” Klea muttered, “we’ve got a problem. They’ll never let us past the gate.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Owen. “Stick close to me and don’t say anything.”
They were at the edge of the crowd. He didn’t pause, but headed straight on into the terminal. Klea followed him. By now, she wasn’t surprised when people stepped aside to let them pass. Somehow, without changing either his clothes or his features, Owen had transformed himself from a scruffy portside laborer to a person of importance and someone to be deferred to.
It’s like that vanishing trick of his turned inside out
, she thought.
Making himself more visible, instead of less. If he tells people he’s an Adept, they’ll believe him, even if he doesn’t have a staff and a fancy black outfit to back him up.
, she thought.
Making himself more visible, instead of less. If he tells people he’s an Adept, they’ll believe him, even if he doesn’t have a staff and a fancy black outfit to back him up.
She stayed close, hoping that some of the effect would rub off on her—making her look like a proper Guild apprentice, or at least an honest farmer’s daughter instead of a ten-times-a-night punchbroad. She blessed the stupid-stubborn pride that had kept her from ever working the port; nobody in this crowd was likely to recognize her and spoil the game.
Inside the terminal, more people thronged the counters and the ship’s-status displays. Klea followed as Owen made his way through the press with the same ease as he had outside, and somehow drew the attention of the man sitting behind the main information desk. The official looked them both over and, apparently satisfied, said, “Okay, you’re next. What’s your business at the port?”
“I need to reach Galcen as quickly as possible,” Owen said. Whatever he was doing to impress the official, it was strong stuff; Klea could feel the power of it moving in the air around him and making the hairs on her arms and neck rise up. “I have urgent business at the Retreat.”
But the man was already shaking his head. “Nope, nothing going out of here to Galcen. Not for love or money.”
Seeming undismayed, Owen glanced out through the armor-glass back wall of the terminal. The window gave a good view of the landing field and the one ship in port. The vessel, a freighter, was already loading for lift-off; crew members and port robots swarmed about its gaping cargo bays.
“How about that one?” he asked. “Where’s she going?”
“Lady LeRoi?
She’s heading for the outworlds, and as far’s I know she’s not coming back.”
She’s heading for the outworlds, and as far’s I know she’s not coming back.”
“What’s her next port of call?”
“Flatlands Portcity, on Pleyver,” the official said. “But if you’re planning on getting to Galcen from there, I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
The man stared at him. “You haven’t heard? I thought you Adepts were supposed to know everything. The Mages are back, they’ve taken Galcen, and they’re sweeping everything before them. There’s nothing left of the Republic, and as soon as
Lady LeRoi
is loaded up and gone the port is shutting down until the Mages get here.”
Lady LeRoi
is loaded up and gone the port is shutting down until the Mages get here.”
“I see,” said Owen. His voice was as calm and unruffled as before, but Klea could tell that he was shaken: he’d gone paper-pale under the cold white glare of the terminal lights. “Where’s the nearest planet-to-planet voicelink station?”
“That’s down, too.” To Klea, the official seemed to be enjoying his role as the purveyor of such dire news. “So what’s it going to be—do you still want to go dicker with the
Lady
’s captain for a ride out of here?”
Lady
’s captain for a ride out of here?”
“Not now,” said Owen. “Perhaps later.”
He turned to Klea. “Come,” he said, and strode off through the crowd without looking back to see if she was following him.
It was late evening when
Karipavo
’s shuttle touched down on Ophel. The embassy had a hovercar waiting at the spaceport, and the Republic’s military attaché met Commodore Gil and Lieutenant Jhunnei on the landing field. The attaché eyed their dress uniforms with approval and led the way to the gate.
Karipavo
’s shuttle touched down on Ophel. The embassy had a hovercar waiting at the spaceport, and the Republic’s military attaché met Commodore Gil and Lieutenant Jhunnei on the landing field. The attaché eyed their dress uniforms with approval and led the way to the gate.
“Sorry about the hurry, Commodore,” he said over his shoulder as he walked. “But we can’t afford to waste any time—the ambassador wants to talk with you at once.”
Gil nodded. “Understood, Major.”
He waited until they were safely inside the hovercar and on the road into the Opheline capital city of Sombrelír before saying anything more. Soon the lights of the port were dwindling away behind them, and Gil felt free to ask, “What word do you have from Galcen these days?”
“Just rumors,” said the attaché. “But Ophel’s always got rumors. The ambassador will fill you in when you meet him.”
Gil took the hint and devoted the rest of the ride to studying the local architecture. The spaceport buildings had been of modern construction in an uninspired panga-lactic style. As the hovercar took them into the diplomatic section of Sombrelir, however, they began passing older buildings, fantastic edifices of painted pastel brick and dark wrought iron, along broad, clean streets illuminated by warm amber lanterns. One of the houses had its doors flung open, so that the light from inside spilled out onto the portico and the plaza beyond.
The hovercar purred up to the front steps of the house, where a footman waited. Belatedly, as the attaché handed over the vehicle, Gil understood that this must be the embassy.
Gil and Jhunnei followed the attaché up to the open door. They passed through a gilded foyer into an enormous reception room—Gil estimated that it took up most of the ground floor of the embassy—filled with men, women, and assorted nonhumans, all wearing fashionable evening dress. In one corner a Khesatan harp quintet played gentle, rippling music; in another, long tables covered with white damask held elegantly arranged food on dishes of crystal and silver.
I don’t believe it
, Gil thought.
We came all the way from the Net, after fighting every Mage warship in the galaxy and damn near getting ourselves blown to pieces in the process, and the Republic’s ambassador to Ophel is throwing a party.
, Gil thought.
We came all the way from the Net, after fighting every Mage warship in the galaxy and damn near getting ourselves blown to pieces in the process, and the Republic’s ambassador to Ophel is throwing a party.
At least he and his aide wouldn’t stand out too much in this crowd. The Space Force full-dress uniform had enough glitter and panache to let them blend right in—and if the hand-blaster in its grav-clip up Gil’s tunic sleeve was nonstandard it was at least invisible. Whatever Lieutenant Jhunnei was carrying didn’t show either, though something about his aide’s demeanor made Gil certain that she hadn’t come down to Ophel unarmed.
Instinct born of long service—and of five years on Galcen as aide to General Metadi—already had Gil turning toward the refreshment tables. Firmly, the attaché steered him in the opposite direction. Gil left the canapes to Lieutenant Jhunnei and followed dutifully toward where the harp quintet played amid a small forest of potted plants.
At Gil’s approach, a portly gentleman in full evening dress stepped forward out of the shelter of the greenery. From his medallion and his sash of office, Gil realized that this must be the ambassador himself.
“Thank goodness you’re here, Commodore,” he said quietly as the attaché moved off into the crowd. At the same time, Gil caught the almost inaudible humming noise that meant a privacy screen was in operation; the generating unit was probably concealed somewhere among the potted plants. “Please tell me everything you know concerning the Mageworlds situation.”
Lines of worry and fatigue marked the ambassador’s round face. Hastily, Gil began revising his earlier opinions about the nature of the evening. If the ambassador to Ophel was throwing a party, it was for the same reason that Gil and Jhunnei had worn their best and most impressive uniforms: to make certain the galaxy at large knew that nothing had changed, that the Republic was still a force to be reckoned with.
“I don’t know anything beyond what happened at the Net,” Gil said. “Everything was normal—no sign of military activity in the Mageworlds, nothing. Then a freighter came from the Inner Net with word of a Mageworlds warfleet bound for Galcen, and at the same time we discovered that our hi-comms had gone down.”
He paused a moment, considering his next words carefully. “The freighter was a known ship, and her captain was one of our agents. I passed them through the Outer Net on a jump-run for Galcen Prime, and kept the Net up behind them for as long as I could. Then I took what was left of my squadron and came here.”
“Only three ships?”
“Shaja
and
Lachiel
were the only other ships within communications range,” Gil said. “Until hi-comms come back up, there’s no way to rally the rest of the Net Patrol Fleet, or even find out how many made it through the fighting.”
and
Lachiel
were the only other ships within communications range,” Gil said. “Until hi-comms come back up, there’s no way to rally the rest of the Net Patrol Fleet, or even find out how many made it through the fighting.”
The ambassador regarded him gravely. “Still, if three vessels were fortunate enough to survive, perhaps others have as well. And you yourself are here tonight, which is very good.”
“We try our best,” said Gil. “What news do you have from Galcen—or do you have anything at all?”
“Rumors,” said the ambassador. “Rumors, and nothing else. A merchant coming from Galcen said that he’d left just minutes after hearing over the open net that Prime was under attack. But he was on a run-to-jump at the time, and he might not have been paying proper attention. Certain people in Sombrelfr who have—how shall we put it—‘connections’ on the other side of the Net have been making a lot of wild statements, claiming that Galcen has fallen and the Space Force is disbanded.”
“It may be true about Galcen,” Gil said. “But about the Space Force—no. As far as I’m concerned, we’re still here.”
“That’s why I wanted you at this reception,” said the ambassador. “To refute the rumors. People in the street are starting to look at us askance, and the local holonews reports are beginning to ask some awkward questions.”
“We can’t have that.”
“No,” the ambassador agreed. “I’ve issued a statement saying that I intend to keep the embassy open until my government directs me to do otherwise.” He paused. “And what exactly are your intentions, Commodore?”
Gil straightened his shoulders. “I intend to repair my ships and prosecute the war against the Mageworlds to the best of my ability.”
“Good,” said the ambassador, with a firm nod. “Then we’re agreed. If you like, I can give you letters of marque and reprisal; they should let you increase your options somewhat, regardless of subsequent political events.”
“They certainly should,” Gil said. “I’ll take them.”
With the ambassador’s offer, the difficulties ahead of him became a fraction less insurmountable. Operating under letters of marque, he could legally attack not just military vessels belonging to the Mageworlds, but their merchant shipping as well—and the shipping of neutral worlds who traded with them. Jos Metardi had started that way, as a privateer out of Innish-Kyl, before the Domina had called on him to build the Resistance a warfleet instead.
“Our immediate problem, though,” Gil went on, “is going to be carrying out the necessary repairs.”
“Major Karris will work with you on that,” the ambassador assured him. “He’s got the local knowledge you need. They like to boast about their shipyards here, but frankly, some of the companies are no better than thieves. You’ll be wanting one of the orbital docking facilities, I suppose?”
“Yes. All three of my ships are space-only. I’ve got some shot-up fighter craft that can get repaired in orbit or on the surface, wherever’s cheapest … that’s going to be the main difficulty, in any case.”
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