The Rifter's Covenant (22 page)

He wasn’t going to
buy any mining tools yet.

o0o

Ixvan levered his
lanky height out of the publink booth and joined the line for the transtube,
considering what he’d learned about Montrose. As he’d suspected after the
novosti interview, the man was associated with the Panarch, apparently as his
cook and physician, possibly as a confidant—but most surprising, he was a
Rifter, of Douloi background.

Like his crewmate
Kendrian.

The pod appeared,
disgorging a sweaty flood of humanity. The vocat managed to wedge himself on
board; there were no seats free. As it accelerated away from the nexus, Ixvan
pondered the most surprising fact his long session of datadiving had turned up.
Despite the paucity of hard data on Montrose in the local Net, expected of
someone close to the Panarch, a location query had been answered at the
shallowest level: full public access. That was puzzling.

Did he enjoy being
besieged by place-seekers? Or did they ignore him because he was a Rifter? That
would fit with the novosti drift that Ixvan’s fine-tuned knowledge of the feeds
had detected. Rifters were being demonized, and it looked like Kendrian was
becoming the focus. He wondered who was behind that. They were clever, whoever
they were. The Panarch, if he was truly trying to help Kendrian, was helpless
against an attack on that level. For it was an attack on him as well.

Ixvan shook his
head. He’d gone as far as he could on a public console. He needed a good long
session at a private console he could trust, and maybe the help of a midlevel
noderunner, before he’d be able to make sense of the political currents on
Ares. It would be a difficult case, if he was indeed to be Kendrian’s vocat at
the trial, a possibility he now believed almost a certainty.

The pod
decelerated, and halted with a faint grinding sound, evidence of accelerated
wear and lagging maintenance. As he pushed his way off against the flood of
incoming passengers, Ixvan hesitated. This couldn’t be the right stop.

The vitae on Montrose
had indicated he had recently taken over the running of a clinic. Despite his
supposition about the disadvantages of the physician’s Rifter background, Ixvan
had nonetheless expected an elegant establishment for the highest Douloi,
trading on the physician’s connection to the Panarch. But no one would put such
a clinic in what had to have been a subterranean service corridor before the
influx of refugees, the walls scarred with slogans, the air faintly reeking of
human waste under the stench of disinfectant.

He pushed past the
poorly dressed men and women lounging on the benches outside the clinic and
opened the door. The noise and smell hit him like a blow, throwing him mentally
back to the Reef. Only the presence of an armed guard among the ragged crowd, a
man his own age with the look of a retired Marine, suggested otherwise. His
assumptions about Montrose collapsed abruptly, making him ashamed of his
prejudice until he remembered that Montrose had yanked him out of the Reef,
business unfinished
.

Ixvan announced
himself to the receptionist, a round-bodied man with a smooth, unlined face and
a look of peace that the chaos around him seemed unable to shake. The man
cocked his head, inward-focused briefly, then smiled up at him. “Please go
through the door and wait in the second room on the right. He will be with you
in a moment.”

The guard swung the
door open for him; he heard it click locked behind him as he walked the short
distance to the examination room. Its interior was stark, containing only a
data console, an elevated platform, a single, tall chair, and a small bureau
with a disposer next to it. A metal tray with some glittering medical
instruments on it sat on the bureau. Ixvan looked away, preferring instead the
single picture that broke the pink sameness of the scuffed dyplast walls: a
holo of a bucolic landscape, feathery trees under a green sky full of towering
clouds.

The door opened.
Despite the stillvid in the net, he was shaken by the man’s appearance.
Although he topped Montrose by at least a fifth-meter, the other man was far
bulkier, and surprisingly ugly. But the eyes that scanned him were intelligent,
the mouth made for humor, even compassion.

“Thank you for
coming so promptly, Gnostor Ixvan.” Montrose indicated the chair. “Please, sit.
It will probably be more comfortable for both of us.” The smile seemed genuine
as he perched himself on the examination table, and Ixvan’s sense of dissonance
increased. ‘Coming so promptly?’ It sounded like twisted Douloi mockery, but
that didn’t seem possible.

The big Rifter
peered at him more closely. “Are you all right? Should we make this a
dual-purpose visit?”

“No. It’s just that
I can’t square this with what you did to me.” The vocat gestured to indicate
the clinic.

“Did to you?”
Montrose seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Pulling me out of
the Reef, giving me no choice. You must understand
pro bono
—why did you do it?”

The doctor just
looked at him silently for a long beat. “Tell me exactly what happened,” he
said finally, tapping his boswell and holding his wrist out momentarily. “You
won’t object?”

Ixvan shook his
head and launched into his tale. As he spoke, the doctor’s face gradually
settled into a stern anger that sent a thrill through the vocat. It transformed
the harsh planes of his face into the very image of justice. Ixvan’s fingers
twitched for an imager; his hobby was portraiture.

“Are you proposing
to retain me as Kendrian’s vocat?” Ixvan asked when he had finished and the
doctor sat ruminating over what he’d heard. Montrose roused himself at the
question and tapped his boswell off. Considering whom he no doubt represented
here, that was commendable caution. The Panarch’s name would be spoken by
neither of them.

“Yes.”

“Then, in light of
the backing I assume you have, I expect justice for the Reef and for the
criminals who run it. That includes a free flow of data.”

Montrose’s gaze
flicked to the holo. He smiled grimly, an expression with an edge of old pain
to it. “Perhaps you know that I was of Timberwell. I, too, have a passion for
justice. It shall be as you demand.”

Ixvan heard
multiple levels in his words.
Timberwell.
Srivashti.
His quick datascan had given the bare outline of the political
maneuvering that had preceded the Panarch’s assumption of power. The former
Archon of Timberwell was near the center of that maelstrom.

Ixvan inclined his
head in thanks. “Then I expect I should be about it.” He toed his travelcache
on the floor next to his chair. “I assume you’ve made discreet arrangements for
me.”

“You’ll be in the
Cap,” the doctor said apologetically. “Putting you in the oneill at this late
stage would be too blatant.” He grimaced. “Telos, how I hate this Douloi
twistiness.”

Ixvan cocked an
eyebrow at him. He was starting to like Montrose a great deal. “Douloi
twistiness?”

The big Rifter
grinned crookedly. “I left that behind in the Riftskip. And there are levels,
dammit. It’s the Tetrad Centrum Douloi.” He shook his head. “No time for that.”
He pushed himself off the platform and dropped his feet to the floor with
surprising grace. “I put in my request the moment we reached Ares space because
I thought it might be days, even weeks, before the message reached you, and you
arranged your affairs. But someone else clearly believes you are the best, and
that it matters perhaps more than either of us are aware to have you come
immediately.”

Ixvan had not
considered that aspect of things. Even more questions flooded his mind as
Montrose shook his head, and went on, “I’ve just begun here myself, walking
into a backlog of cases that gets longer by the minute. And I ought to tell you
that you’ve a client in despair. The youngster needs some encouragement. You’ll
find what I know, at least, waiting in your drop when you get to your
quarters—directions are on the console there.”

Ivard banked the
aircar and dove downward. Cold wind whipped at his face. He glanced over his
shoulder at the arced bank of clouds behind him, shaped by the curvature of the
oneill, their tops teased antispinward below the diffusers now far above.

He pulled out of the
dive and brought the little vehicle to a stop a few meters from where a tall,
thin man waited in the diffuse light of early morning.

“Eh, Firehead?” the
man said, squinting up at him. “Not done yet? Rain comin’.”

“I think one of the
lumbae is sick. Smells wrong.”

The man nodded
soberly and yanked his sleeve back, pulling his boswell up.

Ivard didn’t wait
to hear the result. In the short time he had been assigned to the menagerie,
those in charge had learned to trust his nose.

No other traffic appeared
above the curving landscape, so Ivard raced the aircar until his eyes streamed.
He loved working with the menagerie—not only checking on the well-being of the
various animals but also because he was permitted to fly an aircar for the job.
All pleasure vehicles had been grounded, and except for security and
maintenance (which included the menagerie), all others were only allowed to fly
on a case-by-case basis.

He sailed the
aircar into the shed, checked it over, set it on recharge, then surrendered his
ID patch and logged off for the shift. Two or three other workers waved
cheerily at him, and his heart leaped when once again he found Gray and Trev
waiting, tongues lolling, outside the shed.

But as he knelt
down to scratch each dog’s head, and bury his face in their fur to sniff where
they’d been, he felt them stiffen to alertness a heartbeat before he heard the
crunch of footsteps. He looked up as a smiling man approached, the ajna on his
forehead shimmering. “Nik Cormoran, Ares 25.”

Ivard shook his
head. “I told the other one I didn’t want to talk.”

But the man kept
pacing him. “Heyo, I don’t bite! Ask your friend Marim. We had a good
conversation—I’d love to hear your version of the L’Ranja Whoopee, and your
other adventures . . .”

Vi’ya had warned
Ivard that the novosti were trying to stir people up against Rifters to hurt
Lokri’s chances of winning his trial. He wasn’t going to give them any help. He
tried to shut the man out as he hurried down the pathway. He spotted the vet
departing in the direction of the barren hills where the huge lumbae tribe
wandered. No aid there. But he knew what might rescue him—he had worked late so
he could enjoy the scheduled rainstorm, and here it was, right on time.

Lightning
flickered. Thunder crackled and rumbled, and here came the deluge. The novosti
ran for the first transtube access as the rain started. Ivard and the dogs sprinted
in the other direction, slowing to a steady run as raindrops stung his face and
hit the ground with soft pats. All the scents of loam, shrubs, air changed; it
was headier than dreamsmoke.

Ivard had learned from
the dogs how to sniff without making noise. As he ran along, he breathed in the
moisture-laden air, sifting scents carried down from the clouds, and thought
about his day. Right now he was happy. The job he’d been assigned was
fascinating, and here he ran with Gray and Trev, who he sensed were also happy.

Until now he’d
never considered just how carefully the oneill ecosystem was balanced. Most of
the wildlife on it was permitted to roam freely. Those creatures brought on
various ships that could not be allowed into the environment were sequestered
in cleverly designed areas that made as much use of space as possible, so the
animals would not feel caged.

Only those meant
for radically different climates were “underground,” in vast sealed biomes with
meticulous replications of their native environments.

The rain reached
its maximum intensity when Ivard’s energy began to flag. He slowed,
concentrating on his breathing, and the dogs slowed as well. “Where’ve you been
staying?” he asked them, for the fun of watching their ears take in his words,
then shift to the outside world. He knew from the scents in their fur that they
had recently been bunking with the Kelly—and that made sense. Only the Kelly truly
understood the world of smells that the dogs lived in.

His focus turned
inward as he pushed himself to keep at a steady pace, so when a sudden swirl of
warm, dry spice-laden wind buffeted his face, he almost stumbled.

Trev gave a sharp
yip. Whirling about, hands raised in guard position, Ivard faced—

“Tate Kaga!”
Laughing, he stumbled to a stop.

“Ho, Little Egg,”
the ancient nuller greeted him, making his gee-bubble whirl. “And his guardian
friends. You must keep moving.”

Gulping down air,
Ivard began jogging at a much slower pace.

The gee-bubble glided
smoothly beside him. “So! You forget old two-legged friends?”

“No.” Ivard shook
his head violently. “But I started this job, and in the mornings Jaim is still
teaching me Ulanshu defense . . .” He hesitated, then with a
grimace said in a rush, “Well, there was someone I was pairing with. Before we
left. When we came back, well . . . I’ll have those hours free now.”

The wrinkled face
creased in a sympathetic laugh, and the gee-bubble whirled, stopping with Tate
Kaga upside down. “Your heart is so, Little Egg?” He pointed a knuckly finger
toward the ground.

Ivard smothered a
groan. He was resigned to the fact that Vi’ya could read his thoughts. He knew
she didn’t try, but as yet he could not prevent his strongest emotions from
entering his dreams, and because of the mental link with the Eya’a and the
Kelly, those dreams always seemed to get shared with her.

Though Tate Kaga
made no claims to any powers psychic or otherwise, Ivard suspected the old man
already knew what was going on. Regret hurt his heart, tasting of bitter things
when he thought of Ami.