The Phoenix in Flight (51 page)

As technical staff, they knew they were safe from Evodh,
barring egregious misconduct, but Barrodagh would find a way to re-establish
his authority. Oh yes.

The pilot glanced sidelong at him as the shuttle closed in
on the destroyer hanging in low orbit above Arthelion. Barrodagh ignored him,
desperately trying to keep the infinite void just beyond the dyplast at bay. He
held his breath as the
Satansclaw
filled the viewport, the shuttle
lurching as the destroyer’s tractor beam grabbed them. He jerked as they
slipped through the electronic airlock into the main shuttle bay in a
slithering display of static discharges crawling across the dyplast, and then
relaxed when they finally settled to the deck.

As the engines of the little craft spun down into silence,
Barrodagh controlled the urge to leap to the lock. He walked deliberately, and
with relief too profound to hide, cycled it open.

Outside, a man approached, holding a long wand-like tool
with a metal cable dangling from it to the deck. A Rifter in dark blue followed
him. Beyond them Barrodagh glimpsed a sprawling confusion of pallets and boxes
with their contents spilling out of them, and strode down the ramp with
determination, liking the boom under his heels that reinforced the image of a
busy man, and not a fearful one. The best way to convince people of your
authority was to take it.

The pilot backed hastily up, waving his hands. “Wait a
minute, sir, you can’t go out yet.”

“Don’t tell me what I can do!” Barrodagh snarled.

The man with the wand waved frantically at him as he stepped
off the ramp to the destroyer’s deck, but Barrodagh ignored him.

There was a loud snapping sound and the Bori found himself
lying on his back staring up at the lights overhead. An evil smell singed his
nose and his feet hurt. He shook his head and sat up shakily, then yelled with
surprise when he discovered that his boots were on fire.

A uniformed crewman ran up and triggered an extinguisher,
dousing the flames and splattering Barrodagh with smelly foam. The second pair
of boots ruined in a matter of hours. Barrodagh scrambled to his feet, glaring
around. If anyone was laughing, there would be another summary execution.

But all he saw was the Rifter, who wore a ridiculous uniform
of deep blue velvet with diamond-studded lace at the throat and wrists.
Barrodagh shifted his gaze to the man’s face, and recognized Tallis Y’Marmor,
who stood straight-backed, one forearm behind him, the other making a dramatic
gesture, like some actor in a wiredream.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he said unctuously. “It’s a side
effect of the lock field—a massive static charge. We were about to discharge it
when you stepped out. I trust you are unhurt?”

Only slightly mollified by Tallis’s use of the undeserved
honorific, Barrodagh glared. “Yes. Is Lysanter here from the
Fist of
Dol’jhar
yet?”

“He’s over there now,” said Tallis.

Barrodagh followed the long pointing finger to see the
slight form of the xenoarchaeologist emerge from behind a large crate. The man
hurried toward them through the jumble of artifacts and objects that covered
most of the deck.

“I haven’t found any Urian artifacts yet, senz-lo
Barrodagh,” he said, using the proper inferior-to-superior inflection. The
Dol’jharian honorific sounded odd in the midst of the man’s smooth Uni
intonations. “But I’ve only just started.”

Barrodagh turned to Tallis, who was staring at Lysanter in
surprise.

“Urian artifacts? We weren’t told what you sought, or I
could have saved us all time.” Tallis Y’Marmor gestured even more theatrically
at the massive collection of crated possessions and artifacts. Barrodagh
watched the lace flop over the man’s ringed hand and thought sourly,
This
fool wouldn’t last but moments on Dol’jhar,
before he said, “You were told
precisely as much as you needed to know.”
Because that way you could betray
nothing to the more perceptive greed of Hreem the Faithless.

“Did you supervise the packing?” he asked the Rifter
captain.

“Of course.” Tallis sounded slightly offended.

“Good. What we are looking for is about the size of your
fist or smaller, a mirrored sphere with an odd feel to it.”

Tallis rolled his eyes up and touched three fingers to his
chin in an affected pose, a large sapphire on his longest finger winking in the
light.

Barrodagh gritted his teeth and waited.

“I think,” said Tallis finally, “that I know where there is
something like that. Over here, in this sector.”

He led the way through the mess to a point on the other side
of the bay, where a large crate lay unopened.

“It might be in here. I’ll have someone open it.” He
motioned to a waiting crewman, who brought a small, blunt-nosed device, which
he applied to the top edge of the crate. It began emitting a muffled snarling
noise as the top of the crate slowly peeled back, accompanied by the smell of
heated plastic.

Barrodagh said to Tallis, “Did Hreem interfere at all with
the search at Omilov’s estate?”

Tallis smiled. “No, he didn’t dare, since you cut my orders
for Arthelion before you assigned me to the search.”

The patronizing implication of Tallis’s words grated on
Barrodagh.
But at least he saw why I did it that way. I can still use him
for the time being.

“He was rather unhappy when your orders came through
changing the assignments you’d made before the attack,” continued Tallis. “Some
of his comments were rather unguarded.” He looked hopefully at Barrodagh, who
ignored his leading tone.
I know Hreem hates me. What this fool doesn’t
recognize is that hatred tends to make an enemy predictable.
He wondered
how Tallis managed to be such a mix of perception and blindness.
And as for
that battlecruiser at Malachronte...

Barrodagh had to put the thought away as the crewman
finished peeling off the top of the crate. There might be some way yet to keep
Hreem away from Malachronte. But that would have to wait.

Tallis pointed to a large glossy wooden chest inside. “It’s
in there, I think.”

Barrodagh stood back impatiently as the others wrestled the
chest out and opened it. Inside was a neatly nested set of trays with some
incomprehensible objects in them, along with a leather-bound book. Lysanter
picked up the book and started to leaf through it while Barrodagh and Tallis
lifted out the trays.

“We searched through this chest before we packed it, and I
think what you’re looking for is in one of the lower layers,” said Tallis.

Barrodagh looked in bewilderment at some of the artifacts as
he put the trays aside. He could readily believe that they were Urian in
origin—he’d never seen anything like them. There was a basket-like contraption
of some dull metal that looked like the most uncomfortable underwear
conceivable; a thing like an elongated cup with two curving thongs of metal
springing out of its lip like pincers; and other even less likely objects.

The Bori shook his head. Why would anyone collect such
nonsense? If this was an example of the concerns of the Panarchic aristocracy,
it was no wonder Eusabian’s paliach had succeeded so completely.

Then he forgot his perplexity as Tallis lifted aside a tray
to reveal a smoothly gleaming metal sphere beneath. Barrodagh grunted and
slapped Tallis’s hand aside as the Rifter reached for it. He picked it up
gingerly. It felt oddly light in his hand.

Behind him, Lysanter gurgled a laugh. “Oh my.”

Barrodagh paid no attention, turning the sphere over in his
hands. Excitement raced through him.
The Heart of Kronos!
He could
already see the approval in Eusabian’s eyes when he put the final key to
conquest into his hands.

Wait a minute.
There was a hole in the sphere.
The
description of the Heart never mentioned a hole.
The hole was about the
diameter of his thumb. And there was another, much smaller hole on the side
opposite.

“Senz-lo Barrodagh!” said Lysanter urgently, but Barrodagh
pushed his thumb into the hole. The substance of the sphere yielded oddly,
enlarging just enough to fit around his thumb. The sphere’s interior was warm.

“These are not Urian artifacts,” said Lysanter, glancing at
Barrodagh’s hand, then quickly away.

“No?” said Barrodagh, pulling at the little sphere. It
seemed reluctant to come off.

“I wasn’t sure at first—none of the artifacts in the top
layer were Urian, certainly, but there was no indication of what else the chest
was supposed to contain.” He bit his lip, his gaze fixed on a distant point
across the cargo bay.

The sphere had now flowed up Barrodagh’s thumb all the way
to its base. He struggled to free his hand, while dealing with a horrible sense
that Lysanter was trying very hard not to laugh.

“But the book here identifies this as a collection belonging
to a Basilea...” He looked more closely. “Her name is Risiena Ghettierus.” The
xenoarchaeologist’s voice was higher now, his eyes suspiciously bright. “I
believe the Basilea is Gnostor Omilov’s wife. Her handwriting is rather difficult
to decipher.”

Barrodagh was almost panicky now. The sphere was stuck
tight. He banged it against the side of the crate, with no effect. Now he
couldn’t even feel his thumb anymore.

“What is it?” he yelled. “Get it off!”

He waved his arm in an effort to fling it free—and smacked
Tallis square in the face, provoking a copious nosebleed. Tallis yelped and
bent over, trying unsuccessfully to keep the blood off his uniform. The
crewman, the opener forgotten in his hand, stood gaping.

Lysanter finally lost control, tears spurting from his eyes,
the words uneven amid helpless giggling. “Forgive me... senz-lo Barrodagh. It’s
a part... of a collection of... male chastity devices—” The man bit his lip,
then went on in a wooden voice that was somehow worse than a fit of helpless
laughter would have been. “—and I don’t think it’s supposed to come off.”

o0o

Greywing clenched her teeth.

Montrose worked quickly, his huge hands gentle as he changed
the dressing. Despite the numb-spray, she felt the ache of tender, raw flesh
right down to her bones.

“Looks much better,” Montrose said,
nodding.

Greywing’s stomach tightened when she glanced down at the
raw, oozing flesh still showing in places through the web of pseudo-skin that
was guiding regrowth, but Montrose wore the air of an artist well pleased as he
scrutinized it closely.

“Wrap it so I can move free,” Greywing said. “Emergence soon.
If I need to be fast—” She shrugged her good shoulder.

Montrose looked up, his heavy brows beetling. “You mislike
our errand?”

Greywing tried not to shrug. She did not want to move. The
ceaseless throb was dead, and she didn’t want to waken it. “Vi’ya says the
Arkad promised us big take. Maybe he’s got enough to back that up. But
you
want
the nicks running scan on your background?”

Montrose shook his head. “We’re coming in on lawful
business, and if we do not debark from this vessel while in the Mandala’s area
of governance, there will be no opportunity for them to do so.”

She sniffed. “You believe that?”

Montrose tipped his head. “If we break no laws, they will
not board us. Little as I respect the Panarchist government, I do know the
limitations it imposes on itself.”

He ran his fingers lightly over the tabs in the bandage and
sat back. Greywing knew when Montrose was finished with a subject.

She left the dispensary and wandered to the rec room, hating
the restless knotting inside that always hit before emergence on a run. Vi’ya
never had her work before emergence unless they’d taken damage—she liked Greywing
to start fresh. Greywing understood that, but she would rather have been doing
something.

She found Brandon seated at a table with a cup of something
steaming in front of him, holding out his hand and snapping his fingers as
Lucifur cheek-polished the edge of another table, assiduously ignoring him.

Brandon lowered his hand and tipped his head the other way,
as if trying to get the cliffcat into perspective.

Greywing lowered herself into a chair and punched up a game
of solo-Phalanx. She usually found it soothing, but she blinked at the display,
her mind refusing to translate the symbols into meaning. Her eyes were dry
anyway, and underneath the cottony sensation of the pain meds, the inevitable
slow throb of the burn had started up as soon as she began moving.

Brandon gave up on the cat and got to his feet. He drained
his cup and took it back to the monneplat. As he turned to leave, he paused,
his chin lifting in an inquiring expression.

Greywing turned her head, knowing the new arrival had to be
Ivard. Everybody else came in loud, but Ivard lurked around like somebody was
going to kick him. She hated it that he did that, that he didn’t feel synced
in, no matter what he said.

Ivard slunk in, but instead of coming her way, he didn’t
even seem to see her. He took a quick look over his shoulder, then walked up to
Brandon. “I got something.”

Unlike Lokri, Brandon didn’t sneer. Or wave Ivard off like
he was a bug, the way Marim did. He was like Jaim, he waited for Ivard to talk.
Ivard!

Greywing was as startled as Brandon looked when Ivard said a
little louder, “I got something.”

Brandon gravely regarded Greywing’s brother, who never
offered information to a stranger of his own accord. It was rare enough when he
asked questions.

“You want to see a thing of his?” Ivard went on. “I keep
it on me.” His voice cracked as he slid a hand into an inner pocket in the chest of his coverall.

Brandon gave him a polite nod. “Certainly,” he said.

Ivard’s face twitched anxiously as a familiar series of tones
sounded overhead. “Emergence soon,” he muttered. “Here.” His hand came out of
the pocket, holding out a small, crumpled object on his open palm.