The Phoenix in Flight (23 page)

Brandon preceded them, Deralze falling in behind. Downstairs
a military guard in battle dress waited, and seeing Brandon they snapped to
attention. Brandon gave them a smile and nod as he passed; Osri did not seem to
see them. Omilov reached the door and they closed in behind, but then his steps
slowed, and just beyond the door he stopped.

“Sir,” one of the guards started, “His Grace gave us orders
to use utmost speed.”

“No,” Omilov said slowly, “no more unlikely than its
appearance in the first place.”

“What, Father?” Osri turned.

Omilov’s ambivalence disappeared. “Please board the shuttle,
Your Highness. Osri. I shall be with you in a moment.” He strode swiftly back
into the house, followed by one of the guards.

A minute later he climbed into the shuttle and sank into the
cushioned seat next to his son, who with Brandon took in the carved wooden box
held tightly in Omilov’s hands.

“What? Why did you decide to bring that artifact, Father?”

“Why would His Grace want to see
me,
of all people,
at such a time? Common sense says there is no possible connection between
this.” He hefted the small box. “And the unfortunate confrontation which seems
to be going on over our heads, but then, common sense would have denied the
possibility of our sleep being thus interrupted, wouldn’t it?”

Osri replied in the tone of one humoring a child, “If it’s
as important as you seem to be implying, wouldn’t it be wiser having Parraker
take it to safety?”

Omilov glanced at Deralze and then the guards. “I believe it
is
going to go to a place of safety.”

Osri gave the faintest of sniffs and turned his eyes to the
nearby port as the vessel lifted off and lanced through the sky toward the
capital.

o0o

Hreem slapped the fire-control tab on his pod. The bridge of
the
Lith
shuddered gently to the dopplered moan of the accelerator, and
the familiar reddish chain-of-pearls wake of a skipmissile spread out from the
lower edge of the viewscreen. Light gouted at the termination of the missile’s
flight.

“Got him!” Hreem clenched his fists, drinking in the
sharp-edged sphere of light, blue-white at the center, shading to red at its
vanishing edges, that marked the demise of a Panarchist frigate.

“That’s the last of ’em, Cap’n,” announced Erbee, his rare
grin flaring. “All the others are ours.”

“Alluwan, damage?”

The short, fat Rifter at the damage-control console speared
his little finger up in the air in the gesture of approval. “Nothin’ major. A
puncture or two, under control.”

“That’s the kind of battle I like!” Hreem crowed, his heart
pounding with excitement. “Short, sweet, and painless. Dyasil, shoot burst code
‘Stoneblossom’ at the Node—we’ll see if Naigy is awake. And tell
Novograth
to
skip in closer and get set to fire on the Shield. That fancy Archon’s time is
just about up.”

While he waited for acknowledgment from his contact on the
Node, the Shield-blurred curve of Charvann swung up in the viewscreen, capped
with vivid auroral flame at the pole visible from their vantage. Some distance
off, the tiny shape of the
Novograth
hung in space, its missile tube a
mere needle at this distance, turning toward the planet.

“Mind if I pull in a close-up, Cap’n?” asked Dyasil. “I’m
making a chip for our broadcast, and I’d like a good shot of their first
missile.”

Hreem waved permission. Exhilarated, he was ready to grant
almost anything. The
Novograth
expanded, details became visible: its
heraldic blazon—a bloody dagger surrounded by a flowering wreath—was vivid
against the silvery hull.

“Time?”

“Ten minutes, Cap’n.” Dyasil’s console chirped at him. “Got
a pulse back from Sync-2—two-way coming.”

A head windowed up on the screen: pale, with a droopy,
asymmetric mustache and deep pockmarks on the gaunt cheeks. The pupils of the
man’s eyes were too small, and the whites surrounded the iris in an aggressive,
mad stare.

So Naigluf’s a hopper-popper now,
thought Hreem.
Not
surprising.
Naigluf was a fool, but he’d been a good enough agent for
Hreem’s business in Charvann’s system—until now.

“Can’t talk too long now, Hreem,” said Naigluf. “Crazy panic
here—too many sniffers around for a long jaw. But I’ve got a juicy bit of news
for you: the third Arkad Krysarch is here!” He paused expectantly.

Hreem sat up. “What!” Hadn’t that chip said that Eusabian
had gotten all three... no:
“We will not know for some time.”

After a slight lag, Naigluf continued. “Yeah. That should be
worth a fat bonus from Vengeance, eh? We just picked up word from one of our
people watchin’ that Omilov place—the Archon sent a flyer to get him, get ’em
both, and bring ’em to Merryn.” He reached forward to tap his console, and on a
secondary window, there was the flyer, and Navy guards in light armor
surrounding an old geezer, a young blit in a navy uniform, a big blit in
civilian dress whose stance betrayed his bodyguard training, and in the middle
of them all, the youngest Krysarch—the one known for his orgies.

“Good work, Naigy.” Hreem smacked his knee. “Bonus it is.
How much hopper you want?” Hreem laughed at the man’s discomfiture, which
rapidly gave way to greedy calculation.

“I can get my own hopper. How ’bout you put me in charge of
the Node, once you’re finished here—take your usual cut.”

“Not quite. Twenty for you, eighty for me.” Hreem slapped
the disconnect pad, laughing uproariously at Naigluf’s expression of mixed
anticipation and dismay.
And if he gives me any trouble I’ll have somebody
slip some slag-solvent into his stash.
“Dyasil, tell
Novograth
to
hold off. Me and Barrodagh have got a little talkin’ to do on the hyperwave.”

Hreem chortled as he made his way to the ready room just off
the bridge. Already this attack was far more fun than he could have
expected—who could have thought a Krysarch would guarantee Hreem’s ticket to
Malachronte?
What will I name my cruiser?

Barrodagh’s face appeared, as usual looking like he’d just
stuck a pricklebush up his blungehole.

“Seems like one of the Panarch’s sons is here,” Hreem said.

“Nonsense,” said Barrodagh. “Why are you wasting my time
with this foolishness?”

Hreem guffawed. “Fine with me if you don’t want the Arkad.
But maybe you’d better take a look at this before you decide.” He relayed the
vid.

He’d expected Barrodagh to look more stuffed, but he didn’t
expect the skinny old blungebag to turn the color of rotten cheese, his pupils
shrinking so small in those pale eyes it looked like he was all eyeball.
“That’s impossible,” Barrodagh whispered. “That agent is due at Rifthaven...”

That really shook him up. I wonder what agent he’s
talking about?

“You will secure him,” Barrodagh said. “This order
supersedes all others, excepting only Tallis Y’Marmor’s.”

It wouldn’t do to gloat too much. Barrodagh was damned
powerful. But he wasn’t the Lord of Vengeance.
Afraid of the mindripper
yourself, blunge-for-brains?
Hreem thought, as he said, “And Malachronte?”

Barrodagh’s jaw muscles worked. Then he said, “That will be
your next station, as long as the Arkad is captured. Report to me the moment it
is done.”

The screen went blank.

Hreem let loose the belly-laugh that had been building up.
It really was shaping up to be a great attack, and at the end?
His
battlecruiser.
Not only loot beyond imagining, but the
Maccabeus
.

First, business. He went back to the bridge. “Dyasil. I’ve
got some more talkin’ to do with His Fanciness downside. Open a channel.” Hreem
sat down and leaned forward in his seat, considering just how sour he could
make Tanri Faseult look this time around.

The flight to Merryn from Omilov’s estate was brief. Deralze
wondered what the people under their flight path thought of the smashing
concussion their transonic flight was laying down across the countryside. Most
would no doubt be more reassured by the noise than upset: it would be
unmistakable evidence that the Archon was Doing Something about the attack.

The capital was brilliantly lit. As their ship settled into
a central court in the Archonic Enclave, Deralze noted scores of uniformed men
and women hustling by, their movements giving the impression of highly ordered
haste. The irony of his situation amused him. Once again he had to assume the
outward forms of the system he had rejected.

The hatch slid open with a subdued hiss; at the base of the
steps a weary adjutant in a slightly rumpled uniform saluted and hurried them
across the court into an elevator, where the woman’s eyes gauged Deralze
briefly, one professional recognizing another. His ears popped several times as
they descended. At the bottom, at the end of a short corridor, a metal door
slid aside, revealing the busy murmur of the defense room.

Below the high ceiling hung multiple banks of monitor
screens, repeating the information from the consoles below them. Scenes of
space, some with structures in the foreground, indicating origin at the Node or
another of the Syncs, some of starships with odd heraldic blazons; graphs,
charts, and diagrams abounded, changing with bewildering rapidity. There seemed
to be no naval ships depicted. Between the monitor banks hung odd polygonal
shapes, acoustic dampers that kept the noise of many busy people down to a dull
babble.

The adjutant escorted them toward a high dais at the far
end, dodging messengers and others in a variety of uniforms. Tanri Faseult,
Archon of Charvann, leaned on the dais’ railing, staring up at the large master
screen. The Archon turned his head from time to time to speak to the older,
beak-nosed woman seated behind him. Her lined face was severe, her hair pulled
tautly back.

As they ascended the stairs of the dais, the woman’s console
came into view, vastly larger than those on the floor. Her fingers flew across
it with amazing speed, the master screen, now visible to them, responding with
flickering changes of information in its many window segments.

The largest, central window showed what Deralze took to be a
gods-eye view, looking down on the planet and near space from some vantage
point too far off for actual real-time data. In it a scattering of lights
accompanied by various glyphs and text indicated the positions of various
ships. Other windows showed close ups of those ships; among them Deralze
recognized three destroyers and a frigate, none of which had the Sun and
Phoenix blazon of the Navy on them.
So it is Rifters.

The adjutant left them standing and went up to report. The
Archon turned around, and with a weary smile, came to greet them.

“Sebastian, my friend.” He grasped Omilov’s hand. “And
Osri—I’ve not seen you since your appointment to the Academy.” He turned to
Brandon, and bowed to the precisely correct degree. “Your Highness.”

Brandon inclined his head, but the Archon had already turned
away. Deralze noted no resentment on Brandon’s face at this snub, but that was
as it should be. Certainly the Krysarch was aware that the Archon’s attitude
was to be expected: a visit to a planet by a member of the Royal Family without
notice to the ruling Archon was a gross infraction of courtesy, and a violation
of the Covenant of Anarchy. And Deralze was certain that the Archon could
calculate the spacetime lag between Arthelion and Charvann as well as Osri had,
which made an unauthorized visit into a criminal offense.

Brandon moved to the rail to look out over the busy floor
below, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. Deralze saw the Archon
observe this; then the dark gaze brushed him with a flicker of acknowledgment.

As the Archon turned back to Omilov, Deralze jeeved, calling
upon never-to-be-forgotten Marine bodyguard training to fade out of the
sensibilities of the people around him.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Sebastian,” said the
Archon, “despite my curtness in the com.”

“Quite all right, Your Grace, though I must confess myself
mystified as to why you should wish to see me, of all people, at such a time.”

The Archon’s posture was that of a man long used to command,
the way his gaze moved restlessly over his staff and then back again to the
consoles, signaled strictly-controlled tension. But when he spoke, his voice
was mellow, even mildly humorous. “No less mystified than myself, at the reason
it was necessary. Look here.” He directed Omilov’s attention to the screen, and
motioned to the woman at the console. “Bikara, if you would show Sebastian our
visitor.”

He’s speaking to be heard by the techs
. Deralze edged
to a position where he could watch the viewscreen as well as the staff.

The main viewscreen flickered and filled with a dark-haired
man’s face, his expression carved brutal and heavy by time and habit. The man
was frozen by the record chip in the act of smiling, which made him look cruel
and dissipated. His teeth were crooked, unusual in a society where dental care
was available to virtually anyone; Deralze recognized in that someone whose
childhood had likely been as rough as his own. The Rifter wore an off-white
tunic with a pink stain on it. Thick curly hair spilled out of a gold-encrusted
V-collar.

Osri looked up at the picture in sour disapproval, while
Brandon seemed more interested in the reactions of the people on the main
floor, some of whom had paused in their work to look up at the man frozen on
the screen. Most of the upturned faces were grim, a lot of them age-carved.
They’ve
never been under attack
, Deralze thought. And after a quick glance at the
Archon,
He’s the only one who’s seen action. But probably years ago, before
he inherited his position and had to resign from active duty.