The Alliance (17 page)

He’d have guessed by now what her part in the charade had been and be angry. She smiled. He’d promised her a spanking. If he survived, she’d most likely get it. His kind never gave way to hatred, even if it was galling that they treated Federation agents like children.

Until she joined the Federation, she’d never heard of the Alliance, or of the men and women who served its purpose. An odd legend or two existed, twisted out of all recognition, but no one believed there were immortals living amongst them, descendants of a race isolated to a minor planet in the furthest reach of the galaxy. It was too uncomfortable. Her first reaction had been horror, followed quickly by jealousy, but then she’d met the first of them during an operation and had been saved by her when the plan gone wrong.

Anneke lost a friend in the debacle, but bore no grudge against the Federation for their ineptitude. “They’re so terribly young,” she said as she led Rachael to safety. They’d talked for a great deal during the journey, an education in the way the Alliance saw reality, and Rachael said goodbye with a sense of loss when Anneke walked away between two guards. She wasn’t surprised when she heard she’d escaped. It had looked like Anneke was leading the guards rather than them escorting her.

Jack was like her in that sense, carrying himself with an unconscious air of self-worth that escaped arrogance. Her only glimpse of how dangerous he might be came in the restaurant with his physical reaction to her attempt to hit him. The somersault into a fighting stance had been instantaneous, and he’d radiated menace until he recognized her.

Oddly, she felt safe with him. Her body stirred at the memory of his lovemaking, and she surrendered to its power.

The pain receded more quickly.

* * * *

Jack was clear of the island, sailing south in the general direction of the Treaty Port. The boat was good, the rig balanced, needing only a touch of weather helm, and he was enjoying himself, sailing away from the immediate danger of capture. He’d study the map in daylight, then dispose of it and depend on his memory.

The Pontiff had failed—unless Jack fell into his hands. The deep cover agent would have his own escape planned. It was a pity Peter still kept the pact made with Feodar. Translocation would make things so much simpler, but even Limbo was out of bounds to him.

Daylight saw Jack on the open sea, no land in sight. There was no pole star for this planet, and the orbits of its two satellite moons were so eccentric they were useless for navigation. He had no compass either, and this made navigation a hit and miss affair. He’d studied the chart supplied with the boat at first light and hoped it was accurate, but he needed some way of determining his heading at night before he went further, particularly with the sun near its southern limit lengthening the nights in this hemisphere.

He sailed southward all day, rationing himself to a single sip of water when night fell. His thirst was still manageable. The short tropical twilight gave him time to drop the sail. He unshipped the mast to reduce his profile, rigged a bight of rope from one side of the bow to the other as a makeshift sea anchor, and crawled under the half-deck to sleep.

It was going to be a long voyage.

The dawn found him awake, the mast rigged, the sail hoisted, and the boat running south before a stiff breeze. Apart from another single mouthful of water, rolled around his mouth until it disappeared, he didn’t touch any of the food left in the boat by his rescuer. He’d eaten well in the restaurant and could afford to go without food for a while. The water situation was more serious, and he must conserve it from the beginning.

This was the boat’s best point of sailing and he used his leisure to transfer details from the map to the wooden thwart beside him using the point of the knife found with the food. He disguised them in the outline of a woman’s face, oddly like Rachael’s, creating a mnemonic of the map rather than a copy. He must trust his undercover friend to have left nothing else incriminating in the boat beyond the map. The job done, he studied the map one last time, checking everything against his markings, and then cut the parchment into small strips and ate them. He could afford no waste, and there was protein in the sheet.

The first island showed on the southwestern horizon at sunset, a glimpse of a mountain peak catching the slanting rays of the sun when the boat lifted to the top of the swell. According to his map, it was inhabited and dangerous. His first landing lay beyond it, on the northern fringe of a broad expanse of ocean he must cross. A small island rarely visited, the map showed it as a rookery for sea birds. He could make his preparations for the longer voyage and observe the night sky.

Navigation at night was a problem he must solve.

* * * *

The Pontiff was angry. His ancestors should have wiped out the Elite generations ago. They caused trouble wherever they went, and this one was the worst of all. Sneaky, his mind unreadable, he never opposed directly and was all the more dangerous because of it. The Pontiff had suspected an Alliance agent, but his bloodline was impeccable, reaching back unbroken to the Abandonment and Feodar’s arrival for the establishment of the Pontificate.

Feodar had been a strange individual, even for a Pontiff. He’d been extraordinarily long-lived, some seven hundred years according to the Great Book. Many of his entries meandered, made meaningless by their references to a time beyond the Abandonment and geography bearing no resemblance to reality, and concerned a mysterious covenant made with the Soldier. The advent of the off-worlders suggested he’d been writing about another planet entirely, but archeology proved the occupation of this planet for centuries before the Abandonment. A puzzle, but not important. The Pontiff shrugged and turned back to the matter at hand.

Conveniently, the pilot had stolen a boat. His execution was now a matter of law as well as expedience. A public
auto-da-fe
always had a salutary effect, particularly with an Elite as the star. If he detected any attachment in the man, he’d add the girl too. A few histrionics always pleased the crowd.

“Holy Father.”

The Pontiff looked up at the interruption. “Yes?”

“We’ve found no trace of the pilot or the boat.” The Cardinal seemed nervous. Reporting failure sat poorly, even if it was to his father.

The Pontiff sighed. Each generation weakened the bloodline. Soon they would be as other men and the pontificate would fall into the dust of centuries past and yet to come. He’d tried many wives, sired many sons, and this one was the best of the batch. Hardly a comforting thought.

“Good.” He nodded and prepared himself for yet another explanation of his plan. Repetition might work eventually.

* * * *

Jack slept badly, dreaming the boat drifted too close to the shore during the hours of darkness and fishermen had discovered him with the sunrise. He woke before the first fingers of light appeared in the east, and had the mast rigged ready to hoist the sail when the island peak caught the first rays of light. He waited impatiently and, when it did, his breath rushed out through his mouth in a gusty sigh of relief. He’d hardly moved during the night. The wind had remained constant, and the sea anchor had held him in place.

The sail hoisted, he set a course to the east, aiming to keep the mountain peak just in sight as he bypassed the island. Only the most intrepid islanders would venture this far from land.

It took two days to round the main island and reach his target. It was a wild place. Steep cliffs plunged deep into an angry ocean that ringed the southern half while the sheltered northern shore was only a little better. He had to spend another night at sea before he dared approach. The main beach he ignored. It was too obvious. Anyone coming to the island would land there. His persistence gained its reward close to dusk. A small inlet, just short of the eastern tip, looked fearsome from a distance but concealed a tiny beach tucked behind a jutting rock promontory.

The wind had dropped with the sun, and he approached with the oars, gauging the tide. It still flowed, but close to its peak and there was no excuse not to try. A moment to check the lashings to secure every loose object and he was committed, choosing the last of a set of waves to surf his way up the inlet. It was a wild ride, and he thought he’d left it too late when the beach came abeam, but the sea gods smiled and the boat pivoted tightly and rode the wave onto the beach. He sprang out with the anchor rope, took two turns around a convenient rock, and held it there, gaining inches with each wave surge until the tide peaked and started to recede.

Still not content, he rigged a Spanish windlass with multiple turns of rope and eased the boat higher, warping it inch by inch until the transom was above the high tide mark. Nor did he rest then, draping the nets over the boat and covering them with branches until it looked like a bush growing close to the high tide mark. He intended to be here for days.

Morning found him stiff and sore, but rested from eight hours sleep under the half deck cushioned by the sail packed with grasses. It felt strange not to be moving, and he staggered a bit when he stood.

Fresh water proved no problem. A spring-fed trickle led down to a rock pool above the main beach, and there were enough eggs to satisfy his immediate hunger. He’d experiment with the young birds later. An observation post to watch the night sky was next, and a crag summit gave him a 360-degree view and a flat area to set up his observatory.

A stick in the center and a circle scribed using a piece of rope looped over it was the first move. He could mark sunrise and sunset to determine the north-south line and then plot the movements of the stars relative to this line. It would take time to get it right, but time was his ally. He had no schedule to keep, and the hunt might die down a little if he laid low. The family would know by his non-appearance that he was in trouble, even if they did nothing about it.

* * * *

“Jack’s missing.” Anneke turned to face her brother. “What’s his mission?”

“Feodar’s World needs a nudge in the right direction. The current pontiff has exhausted the blood line, and Peter thinks it’s time for him to go,” Karrel said.

“Why use Jack? It won’t please Dael. He’s done his sixty missions and Gabrielle wants her son back.”

“So do I,” Karrel said, giving her a sidewise smile. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?” Anneke’s tone sounded dangerous.

Karrel nodded. “Your fault.”

“Explain, brother, or I’ll do something quite nasty to your anatomy.”

“You came back raving about this Rachael and caught Peter’s attention. He’s quite taken with her.”

“He’s a bit old to be playing Cupid. What does Gabrielle think?”

“She would have preferred it wasn’t Feodar’s world,” Karrel said somberly. “She was present when Peter made the pact.”

Anneke shook her head at their father’s stubborn nature. “We’re still bound by it?” He’d promised Feodar not to use his special powers on the world the Hive Master had claimed to free Gabrielle and considered himself and the whole Alliance bound by it. “He wouldn’t hold back if one of us were in danger?”

“You know Peter. What do you think?”

Anneke fell silent, considering the unusual man who’d fathered them both. He didn’t invite facile judgment. “I don’t know him as well as you do,” she said. “You’ve shared his time as a soldier.”

“Think yourself lucky you haven’t.” Karrel’s mind closed off an emerging memory. “We only had glimpses of a dream about a battle in some place called, Normandy, but it has never left me entirely. The things he’s seen and done put him beyond our judgment.”

“I’ll ask him.”

Peter appeared at their side. “Ask me what?”

Two hundred years had made little difference to his appearance. He and Karrel looked of an age, as did Dael and Gabrielle, who joined Anneke at the beach camp table. Anneke guessed Peter had summoned the others when he sensed a family conference was brewing.

“Would you let your promise to Feodar get in the way if Jack were at risk?” she asked.

“Jack is the best trained operative we have for the job. Torred and Jesse taught him seamanship.” Peter glanced across the water to the small cluster of graves halfway up the sand hill, in an area leveled by hand and carefully tended by all of them. It held the graves of all the commoners who’d grown close to the Alliance, Torred, Samara, and Jesse—Anneke’s lifelong friend and husband of eighty years, a bitter reminder of the folly of loving a commoner. “He’s doing a job no other could. I expect him to succeed.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Peter stood quite still, his expression and his mind closed. “No.”

“Are you going to?” Anneke stepped a little closer.

“I intend avoiding the circumstances that would require an answer.” Peter’s tone sounded flat. “Feodar wanted a guarantee for his descendants. My plan honors the spirit of my promise as well as the letter.”

“If it fails?”

“I’ll make a new plan.”

Anneke stared at her father’s face, willing him to continue, but knowing he wouldn’t. The others were no help, content to trust Peter’s judgment. She couldn’t abdicate that much responsibility, even to Peter.

Karrel’s hand on her shoulder turned her away. “
Leave it little sister. He knows what he’s doing...and so will you when the time’s right. Jack can look after himself and wouldn’t thank you for interfering. Neither will we.”
She heard iron in her brother’s thoughts. He was his father’s son.