The Phoenix in Flight (19 page)

Hreem grinned. He’d torn up Rathbone’s Writ, which had given
the old man the legal basis for the
Flower of Lith
as an agent of the
Panarchy, right after taking the ship away from him. Lots more profit in
jacking glitterships and other prizes inside the Thousand Suns than in picking
off Shiidra and other raiders, escorting merchants, and similar operations
out-octant where human settlements grew thin.

“If it were just one or two ships or squadrons,” il-Ngari
was saying,” that might be normal attrition, but even then we’d expect news.
It’s as if they just vanished. And many of them—Hreem the Faithless and Arvann
Templar are good examples—are running too lean an operation to stay covert as
long as they have.”

Norio’s hands paused briefly in their ministrations. Hreem
grunted unhappily, noting quick glances from some of the crew. The
sequestration after the
Lith
was fitted with the Urian tech had been too
long to begin with. Thanks to Barrodagh, they’d been forced to wait even longer
in the Charvann system’s Oort Cloud—on the watch constantly for one of Hreem’s
deadliest enemies, whose main base was rumored to be somewhere in this
system—while others who had joined Dol’jhar’s war were growing rich, and the
crew had become increasingly restive.

“. . . and there are far too many missing now—you have my summary
in hardcopy.” The Spider touched her compad. “There’s more in your DataNet
pools. Padraic and I have had our best people working on it, and all we have is
rumors.”

“Rumors?” a man with a dark, seamed face interjected. He
pulled his compad toward himself and began tapping at it.

“Rumors.” Carr’s voice rumbled with disgust. “The usual
idiocy. The coming Rifter Domination that we hear about every generation. The
return of the Ur.”

“And strong hints of Dol’jharian involvement,” said
il-Ngari.

Hreem laughed. “Hints. I’ll give you a hint, right up your
buju.” He slapped the now-inactive fire-control tab on his pod and thrust his
groin at the screen.

The crew whooped and cackled; the mood on the bridge
lightened.

On screen the Privy Council had broken up into puzzled
discussions, while the Panarch watched, his face impassive. Only fragments of
the animated conversations came across:
Shiidra... Gehenna...madness...
executed after the Trucial Murders...

Hreem laughed again. These were the people behind the ships
that sought the destruction of the
Flower of Lith
and the death or exile
of everyone on board. A glow of delight and confidence pervaded him as
confusion confounded his enemies. The delight was shared by the crew, who
laughed and made comments.

Their delight surely mirrored that felt on every Rifter ship
with a hyperwave, sparking a sobering thought: Eusabian had to know they were
watching.

Norio leaned in and whispered, “Dol’jhar is stroking us,
just as the Panarch is stroking that dog.”

Hreem’s mood soured, then he shrugged.
So what?
He
turned back to the screen as the man with the dark face hefted his compad.
“Nahomi, there’s something odd about these reports. Unless I’m misreading the
source data you’ve linked, some of the correlations are outside each other’s
light cones.”

The Spider frowned. “That’s the second question. It’s
obvious that someone’s been tampering with the DataNet.”

“Either that,” replied the man with a wry grin, “or they’ve
discovered a means of FTL transmissions.”

The tiny woman across the table from il-Ngari laughed.
“That’s right up there with the Rifter Domination and the return of the Ur.”

There was a murmur of laughing agreement from the rest of
the Privy Council, which caused a chorus of gloats and insults from Hreem’s
crew.

Dyasil gestured at the Urian communicator. “Nicks got it
wrong three ways! Ur came back, sort of, we got FTL comms, and there’s Rifter
domination goin’ on like they never dreamed.”

The crew gave that the whoop it deserved, but Hreem leaned
forward. There was more information in this vid than needed for Eusabian’s
propaganda. Could this be a rogue vid? That had interesting implications for
Barrodagh’s control of the situation. Maybe he could find a way to use it for
leverage in the Malachronte situation.

On the screen, the Panarch made one of those Douloi hand
gestures at the dark-faced man. “Trust a Centripetal Gnostor to spot that,
Mortan. This DataNet tampering ties in to our second topic for today, and our
consultant, who was kindly seconded to us by the Praecentor of the Alannat
Anachronics Hub when the tampering came to light in a different context.”

He flexed his wrist and Hreem caught the glint of a boswell.
A few moments later a man walked into view: short, pudgy, and balding. He was
dressed in what Hreem guessed were his best clothes, but they looked shabby
compared to the subdued elegance of the Douloi around him.

“One of their tame Polloi,” said Pili at Fire Control, his
voice harsh. Like many Rifters who’d started out as citizens of the Panarchy,
he scorned what he’d once been.

“Welcome, genz Oldrich,” said the Panarch as the man
approached the head of the table.

Oldrich bowed deeply, his face flushed as if with
embarrassment. Hreem heard a faint rhythmic thumping; the Panarch glanced down
next to his chair, smiling faintly. The dog?

“Teodric,” said the Panarch. “Perhaps you would honor us
with a summation of what Infonetics has been working on as a preface to genz
Oldrich’s presentation?”

“Something odd is going on with the PanStellar Bourse,” the
slender Douloi began. “What has come to light, prompted by Nahomi’s inquiries
on her own line of investigation, appears to be part of a series of small
transactions going back many years that, like the communications Nahomi speaks
of, seem to correlate events outside each other’s light cones. Since this is
impossible, it’s apparent that someone has tampered with the records, but we
have not yet discovered who or why.”

“I thought you were happy at Infonetics,” said the dark man,
looking up from his compad. “You angling to join the Centripetals? Good job of
putting all that together.”

Teodric bowed in his seat, smiling.

Norio leaned over to whisper into Hreem’s ear. “There are
only thirteen Centripetal Gnostors in the whole Panarchy. It’s the smallest of
the Colleges, and the most dangerous. They see connections even the Spider
misses.”

Hreem shrugged. He still couldn’t figure out where this was
going. “Dyasil, why’d you leave all this blunge in?” he said. “If someone sold
me a wiredream like this I’d cut his balls off.”

Dyasil turned around, obviously flustered. “The good stuff’s
comin’, Cap’n—there’s a cut coming up. But nobody’s ever seen a real Privy
Council meeting before, not ever. And me’n Erbee’ve been tryin’ to figure out
how to use our hyperwave to play the Bourse, so I thought you’d like to know
where Barrodagh got all the money he’s been throwin’ around.”

Understanding crashed in on Hreem. Dol’jhar had been dirt
poor since the Panarchy smashed their little empire twenty years back. They
still had a few planets, but the Rifters who raided them didn’t get much, and
he’d heard reliably that Dol’jhar itself was a hellhole. He’d never thought
about where the money for Eusabian’s revenge was coming from.

Then anger surged in him. Was Dyasil trying to show him up
in front of the crew? He glared around the bridge, noticing that there were
several off-duty crew come to be in on the viewing.

Norio whispered in his ear again. “He’s honestly puzzled.
I’m sure he thought you’d see it right away. But nobody else here did except
Erbee.”

“I got it, I got it.” Hreem flicked his hand at the rest of
the crew. “But there’s no use letting it go on for the rest of these chatzers,
who just want to see some action.”

Hoots of agreement rose, and Metije, Alluwan’s second,
smacked the bulkhead with her fist. “Get to the blood!”

Norio sighed happily. Hreem knew he was enjoying the play of
emotions on the bridge.

Feeling generous, Hreem said, “Good job, Dyasil, but bump it
forward.”

Dyasil shrugged and tapped his console. The viewscreen
blurred, then cleared. The little balding man was answering questions from the
Privy Council. The Douloi weren’t pressing the man, but his face was redder
than ever, and he was sweating; a drop of liquid dropped off his face onto one
of his hands.

At that moment the Panarch pulled his compad toward himself.
Oldrich fell silent, and the Douloi around the table looked at the Panarch,
except for Nahomi and Carr, also studying their compads.

The two got to their feet, the Spider flushed with anger.
They spoke simultaneously.

“Jerrode Eusabian!” Nahomi said viciously.

“Let me take a fleet back there and finish the job!” shouted
Carr.

The Panarch looked up, his anguish clear. “Nahomi,” he said,
his voice rough. “Please.” He gestured at the rest of the Douloi, whose
confusion was apparent. “Share this with them.” He settled back in his chair,
staring at the compad, both his hands now on the table. Hreem heard a faint
whine; the dog again, he guessed.

The Spider tapped her compad and then spoke slowly. “The
Aegios of the Qoholeth Anachronics Hub—a self-confessed traitor come to his
senses—has informed us that Eusabian arranged the assassination of all three of
His Majesty’s sons: Brandon at his Enkainion, the other two at the same time.”

Her voice slowed even more. “The turncoat dispatched
warnings to Arthelion, Narbon, and Talgarth as well as to here, but...” Her
voice dwindled away.

One of the Douloi looked up from her compad. “The spacetime
graph doesn’t look good,” she said. “The Enkainion was today. If the plot
proceeded as planned...” She too did not go on.

“The fool,” the Panarch murmured. They would not have heard
him if the room hadn’t gone completely silent, everyone intent on their
compads. “Is he truly that blind?” He lifted his face. “We will not know for
some time.”

The Panarch then rose to his feet. Hreem could see him
collecting himself, and despite his hatred for the man and everything he
represented, he could not help being impressed by the Panarch’s control.

“Obviously,” said the Panarch, “this is not our last day.”

Oldrich stepped forward, and the Panarch turned his way, his
brows lifted in question.

“But it is,” said the little man. He inhaled deeply, then
hissed like a snake, turning his head from side to side, his face purple with
effort.

The Panarch fell forward onto the table as though boneless,
followed moments later by his councilors.

“A
numathanat
!” Hreem exclaimed. He shot a glance at
Metije standing beside Alluwan at the Damage Control console. The deathsnake
tattoo on her neck, symbol of the outlawed Ultschen cult whose priests could
project poison with their breath, stood out starkly against the sudden pallor
of her flesh as she stared back at him, wide-eyed.

Norio inhaled sharply, and Hreem felt his hands on his
shoulders shiver. “Oh, Jala,” he whispered. “She is so frightened.”

Hreem tore his gaze away as snarling erupted from the
screen. Metije was no
numathanat
. Norio would have found that out.

In the vid, the numathanat was screaming now, desperately
backing away from the table and beating at the dog hanging from his arm with
his other fist. The animal ignored his blows and refixed its jaws on his arm
with a lightning movement, jerking its head from side to side. Hreem could hear
the bones snap, see blood spurting. Then the little man mastered his panic and
breathed out violently, leaning toward the dog. It stopped moving abruptly, but
did not release its grip.

The numathanat knelt and pried the dog’s jaws open with his
other hand, gasping with pain. Blood ran freely down his ruined arm onto the
floor as he fumbled out a pocketcomm with his other hand and spoke urgently
into it, his voice thready with shock. The scene faded out...

The white-mottled blue-green curve of a planet loomed vast
on the screen. A caption rolled up over it
—Abilard—
as
the
dragonfly shape of a destroyer slowly passed under the camera’s vantage point,
its radiants flaring as it accelerated away. The angle of view accentuated the
long missile tube projecting forward from the angular main hull. Emblazoned on
its superstructure was the figure of a cross on a grave, with a strange-looking
hat—narrow-brimmed with a rounded top—smashed down on the cross, so that the
upright broke through the crown of the hat. This symbol was surrounded by an
inverted five-pointed star.

“The
Samedi,”
said someone. “That’s Emmet Fasthand’s
ship.”

Around the destroyer could be seen smaller, more aerodynamic
vessels, falling away toward the planet’s surface at tremendous speed. Then the
lights of a vast city at night were framed in the viewscreen, seen from a great
height, the rumble of a ship’s engines and the screech of high-velocity
atmospheric flight forming a loud accompaniment.

The lights twinkled peacefully below. Without warning, from
just below the edge of the picture, the garishly green lances of a cluster
strike of laser-boosted missiles arrowed out. Their screaming roar could be
clearly heard. As the green beams winked out, a series of actinic blue-white
domes bloomed in a crooked path across the center of the city, lighting up vast
sections of it—and the city lights went out.

“Bad luck for Abilard.” Pili leaned back in his console,
grinning at the screen in front of him which repeated the image above his head.
“Emmet hated them after they caught him with his pants down in that raid in
’58—made him the laughingstock of the Rift Sodality.”

More crew had crowded in behind Hreem’s command pod to watch
the larger image on the main screen. At the scan console, Erbee gazed upward,
his mouth slackly open, lips glistening.
He’d better not start drooling
again, or I’ll rip his lips off,
thought Hreem. Then another caption caught
his eye.