Alector's Choice (56 page)

Mykel couldn’t sense anything
about the rebel, unlike the others, even as he stood there and fired.

The bullet bounced
off the Myrmidon’s tunic.

In that moment of
surprise, Mykel squeezed the trigger of his rifle, willing with all the
concentration he could muster the bullet to strike the bluecoat. A single hole
appeared in the bluecoat’s forehead, and he toppled forward.

Mykel knew the rifle
had not been aimed that well.

He could feel his
vision narrowing, then widening.

“… if you want us to
get through this, Captain… you need to get my sidearm into my good hand… can’t
reach it… otherwise…”

Mykel scrabbled
forward, leaving the rifle, crawling, then resting, crawling, until he was
beside the Myrmidon.

His right hand
fumbled with the catches on the holster, but he managed to loosen them and ease
the weapon onto the Submarshal’s chest.

“We might… have a
chance now…”

Mykel slumped back.
He could barely see… and then… he could not.

With the pale orange
white of a sun that had just crept above the eastern horizon out to his right,
Dainyl shifted his weight in the harness and second seat of the pteridon he
rode behind Falyna. Ahead, and to his left, were Quelyt and the other pteridon,
as the two flew across the old growth forest. As the dispatch from Captain
Rhystan had indicated, Captain Mykel had indeed attacked the rebels at dawn.
Whatever he had done had scattered them away from the forest, and Cadmians were
pursuing, in a measured fashion.

Both pteridons had
circled to the northwest to make a long pass across the rebels heading southeast,
in order to avoid the higher cliffs. At that moment, Dainyl Talent sensed the
appearance of one of the ancients. He leaned to one side, trying to pinpoint
the source of the amber green force. There was a distortion in the sky, just
above a rocky point where the rebels had begun to reform. The distortion
resolved itself into a greenish sphere.

Suddenly, the
pteridon began to lose altitude as the ancients drew on lifeforce as well,
leaving less for the pteridon. Dainyl dropped his shields, except around his
head, and let the energies flow to the pteridon.

“Falyna! Avoid that
point, and fire from as far away as you can!” Dainyl leaned sideways to see
past Falyna. Her pteridon’s blue crystal beak shimmered in the bright white
light of the morning sun. Farther to the south, Quelyt had clearly not seen or
sensed the soarer, and he had dropped his pteridon into a dive toward the
remaining rebels beneath the rocky point; his skylance flared toward the
rebels, a line of blue flame.

The blue flame that
had been aimed at the rebels at the base of the red bluff curved and reversed
itself, retracing its path back skyward to the lance and turning green. The
shaft of green exploded through the lance, then drove through the impenetrable
skin of the pteridon.

Dainyl blinked.
Quelyt slumped in his harness, the upper part of his body a blackened mess.
More impossibly, the pteridon’s wings froze, then folded against its body. The
pteridon nosed downward toward the rebel force and slammed into the stone above
the rebels. The bluish explosion cascaded off the stone and across the rebels
below.

Falyna raised her
lance and triggered it.

“Get away from there!
Turn east!” snapped Dainyl. He’d sensed that the soarer was dangerous, almost
from the beginning, but he hadn’t thought that she’d get involved in something
like a minor revolt.

A second line of
green extended from the green sphere and met the blue flame from Falyna’s
skylance. Dainyl saw and sensed the energies flaring back at them and drew all
the lifeforce he could, throwing up shields.

The green lance
struck, and Dainyl found himself swatted clear of the pteridon, his harness
straps snapped, tumbling in midair. Time seemed to slow, and he reached out
with all his Talent, thrusting out force to the ground below, trying to slow
himself, to break his fall. The wind past his face seemed less fierce, but was
that enough?

He could see rocks
and sand below, and he cast out more Talent force, could feel himself slow… but
not enough. From somewhere came another infusion of Talent— green?—tinged with
black, and his speed slowed yet more. Then he had no more strength left, and he
dropped out of the sky, slamming into a line of rock with one leg.
Instinctively, he put out an arm—and wished he hadn’t as he heard and felt it
snap as he crashed into another boulder.

Pain washed over him
from too many places for him to count—but he was alive, at least for the
moment. In addition to the broken arm and leg, Dainyl’s chest was badly
bruised. With his good hand, he tried to straighten himself, to push himself
into a sitting position against the rocks beside him. He moved a bit, and then
a pinkish blackness washed over him.

He couldn’t have been
unconscious too long, before, in between waves of pain, he could hear voices,
but the words were indistinct. Dainyl could vaguely sense three rebels,
standing less than two yards away. If he could reach his sidearm… but it was on
his right hip, and that was the arm that was broken so badly he couldn’t move
it, even blocking the pain with Talent.

“Need to get the
others over here,” said one.

A single shot rang
out, and the rebel who had spoken pitched forward. Two more shots followed, and
the other two rebels dropped.

Dainyl wasn’t
surprised when Captain Mykel slipped out from behind the rocks.

Crack!

The captain was
twisted by the force of the bullet that had slammed into his shoulder, and he
went down hard. For several moments, the Cadmian officer lay on the sand
stunned, then slowly twisted himself onto his back and used his legs to lever
himself into a position against the rocks. Blood was staining his tunic,
slowly.

“There are certain
dangers… to commanding from the front, Captain.” Dainyl forced the words out.
He could sense someone else coming, but not who it might be.

The captain
laboriously moved the rifle up, but Dainyl couldn’t see how the captain would
be able to aim it one handed and one armed—and wounded. Yet there was little
Dainyl could do. He was anything but mobile.

“Well… look what we
got here…” Another rebel stepped out from behind the boulder directly across
from Dainyl.

Dainyl could sense
that the man had a natural Talent shield, but seemed unaware of it, another
indication of how much the captain relied unconsciously on his Talent.

“I’d like to take you
for a ride, but looks like neither of you is going anywhere.” The rebel
smirked, then fired directly at Dainyl.

The bullet blasted
into Dainyl’s tunic. For a moment, he could sense nothing, except pinkish
blackness, and, as he came back to quick consciousness, the pain radiating
through his already bruised chest.

A second rifle went
off—the captain’s—and Dainyl felt the focused Talent that twisted a horribly
misaimed bullet right through the forehead of the rebel. The man toppled
forward, dropping his rifle and landing facedown in the sand just short of
Dainyl’s less injured leg.

Talent—potentially
strong Talent. Dainyl had known many alectors who did not have a fraction of
the Talent the captain might have—if he were allowed to live to develop it.

For the moment,
Dainyl could do nothing about that. Even if he could persuade the captain to
reach his sidearm, the weapon was best saved for any more rebels who might
appear before the Cadmians did.

“If you want us to
get through this, Captain,” Dainyl said slowly, with more effort than before, because
every breath hurt, “you need to get my sidearm into my good hand. I can’t use
it otherwise.”

The captain eased
sideways, then stopped, then moved some more. Dainyl could sense the pain, pain
that the captain could have controlled better if he knew how to use his Talent.
Finally, Mykel was almost beside the Myrmidon. His good hand fumbled at the
catches, but he finally loosened them enough to ease the sidearm clear and ease
it onto Dainyl’s chest.

Dainyl had to force
his left hand up to take the weapon, but he had it. “We might have a chance
now.”

The captain slumped
back, unconscious.

Dainyl looked at him.
The captain was still bleeding, enough that all Dainyl had to do was nothing,
and a Talented lander would die, and no one would know.

Dainyl looked at the
captain who had risked his life to save him. He was so young, and he would die
young in any case. He might never develop his Talent more, either, Dainyl told
himself. With the tiniest point of Talent, he reached out and fused the point
where the bleeding was the worst, then in a second place.

His eyes closed, and
he tried to listen, since he could not see. For a time, he did neither.

When he could open
his eyes again, he heard voices.

“Captain! Captain
Mykel!”

“He’s over here!”
Dainyl rasped out. He smiled, raggedly, waiting.

Alectors who govern
should avoid explaining their actions, if at all possible. Life is complex and
filled with conflicts, and few of even the most intelligent know the background
information. Fewer still can calculate the implications and ramifications of a
decision. For these reasons, the facts and conditions that underlie a ruler’s
decisions, or the decisions of an alector who administers for the Archon, can
seldom be presented fully in a manner that will accurately describe the
rationale for such action.

Even if all such
information could be presented, doing so would be useless, if not dangerous.
Both steers and less discerning alectors demand certainty in their life, yet
the only certainty is uncertainty.

Equally important is
the fact that they do not want to study the world around them and all that lies
behind it. Nor do they wish to spend the time necessary to master
understanding. They wish simple explanations to support their baser desires and
a sense of certainty in their lives. To this end, they delude themselves that
they understand their world. In point of fact, they will perform all manner of
contortions in thought to retain that illusion of understanding. That illusion
is the fundamental basis for their acceptance of their society and their world.

In the vast majority
of instances, the simple and appealing answer or explanation is inaccurate or
misleading, if not both. Therefore, the wisest course for an alector is never
to explain. If an explanation is necessary, however, the one given should be
simple and straightforward, couched in a manner that appeals to the simplistic
beliefs of those for whom it is intended. There should be no lies and no
inaccuracies, for those can often be easily determined, merely the use of what
is factually correct in a manner supporting the decision at hand.

Views of the Highest

Illustra

W.T. 1513

Mykel did not
remember much after shooting the last bluecoat. There were images of the
Submarshal looking at him strangely, and warm pressure across his chest, and
being carried somewhere on a stretcher, then rolling in agony in a wagon.

After that, there had
been blackness, and heat and chill. He remembered liquids down his throat, and
voices, but not whose voices or what he had tasted. He could recall talking to
someone, more than one person, but his words had made no sense, not even to
himself. Through it all, his left side and his head had been splitting, or
throbbing dully.

Slowly, he opened his
eyes. He lay in a large bed that looked out through two open doors to a
balcony. Beyond the balcony railing were trees, deep green, not because of
summer, but because of the late afternoon sunlight. The chamber walls were all
of white plaster, wide golden wooden shutters folded back from the windows, and
fabric hangings, showing trees and flowers. He was propped up in a half-sitting
position with pillows. His left shoulder was heavily bound, and dull aches
throbbed everywhere.

A Cadmian ranker
stood inside the closed oak door.

Mykel coughed.

The ranker turned,
and Mykel recognized Wejasyr. “Sir? Are you awake?”

On the surface, it
was a stupid question, but Mykel understood what he meant. “If you’re asking
whether I’m in my right mind, Wejasyr, I think so.”

“Yes, sir!” The
ranker rapped on the door. “Captain’s awake.”

Within moments, an
older woman came through the guarded doorway first, carrying a tray, on which
were a beaker and a pitcher. She filled the breaker and tendered it to Mykel.
“The more you drink, Captain, the faster you’ll heal.”

“Thank you.” He
accepted the beaker and took a swallow. The ale tasted good, very good, Mykel
had to admit, and took another long swallow.

By then Rhystan stood
by the foot of the large bed. “I’m glad to see you’re back with us.”

“How is Fifteenth
Company?”

“Bhoral has them in
line. You only lost five men, and seven wounded. Amazing, really, given all
that mess.”

“What about Sixteenth
Company?”

“We had three
wounded. That was all. A few rebels tried to leave the forest, but when we shot
at them they didn’t want to try. Later, we let them surrender, those that were
left.”

Mykel moistened his
lips, glad that things had held together after he’d been stupid enough to get
shot—and after the battle had been largely won, at that. “When is it? What
day?”

“Londi afternoon.”
Rhystan smiled.

“That long?” Mykel
knew he hadn’t been himself, but… he hated to think of what he might have said,
because he recalled saying things, but not what they had been. He hoped he
hadn’t said anything about his shooting or about Rachyla. It would be best if
he hadn’t said what he had seen when the pteridons had been destroyed. “I must
have been raving for days.”

“You weren’t raving.
You mumbled a lot, and some of it didn’t make sense. The only thing that did
was that you couldn’t let them shoot the Submarshal. You kept saying something
about soaring, several times—must have felt like you were flying.”

“I didn’t feel that
way. Maybe I wished that I had been.” Mykel offered a soft laugh.

“You lost a lot of
blood, almost too much, but they said you should be all right. They were more
worried about your head. You whacked it against the stone pretty hard after you
were shot, the Submarshal said.”

“The Submarshal? How
is he?”

“He’s tougher than…
he’s tough.”

“You were right,”
Mykel replied slowly. “It was problematical—and foolhardy.”

“I’m glad it was you,
but it worked. There aren’t any rebels left, and the handful of seltyrs who
survived pledged full allegiance to the Duarches.”

“No rebels?”

“A few. We rounded up
maybe thirty, and there were others who ran and don’t want anyone to know that
they were part of the bluecoat force.”

Mykel nodded slowly.

The door opened
again, and another figure entered the chamber. More properly, the Submarshal
was rolled through

• the doorway in a
chair with wheels that creaked as it moved.

The ranker who pushed
it must have been from Sixteenth

Company, because
Mykel didn’t recognize him.

The Submarshal’s left
leg and right arm were both splinted, and the leg was supported by a plank
fastened at an angle to the rolling chair. A large bruise covered the left side
of his forehead and his cheek. Mykel could sense a purplish pink aura around
the alector. Was it his eyes? He glanced at Rhystan and the older woman, who
had stepped back, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary with them.

“Captain, I’m glad to
see you’re recovering,” offered the Submarshal. “Without your courage and
abilities I would not be here.”

Mykel smiled
crookedly. “I’m afraid I didn’t handle things as well as I could have.”

“You did far better
than any had a right to expect. Far better.”

Rhystan nodded
emphatically.

Mykel took another
swallow of ale. It eased the dryness in his throat, as well as the headache he
hadn’t been totally aware that he had.

“There’s one thing
I’d like to know…” Rhystan said slowly, looking from Mykel to the Submarshal
and back to the Mykel.

“What’s that?”

“How did the rebels
manage to shoot down the pteridons?”

Mykel would have
shrugged, but that would have hurt far too much. “I don’t know. I saw them go
down. The first one was flying too low, I think, but the Submarshal would
know.”

Both captains turned
to look at the Submarshal.

Dainyl smiled
ruefully. “You may recall that one of the reasons why the Cadmians were sent
here was because of the nature of the MurianMountains. Some mountains are more
dangerous than others. There are downdrafts and other problems. We had known
about those just north of the mine, but not about those above the plateau
behind the forest. We should have guessed from the nature of the ground, but
when you are pursuing a foe, you don’t always see things so clearly. Because of
the problems that caused the first pteridon to crash into the cliff, my flier
was distracted, then was hit—I would guess—by a lucky shot from below. The lack
of guidance and the terrain combined to cause the second impact. I was
fortunate—mostly fortunate—to have been thrown clear.”

Mykel could sense a
combination of truth and misleading statements although not quite lies, in the
Submarshal’s words. He also understood that the Submarshal would say nothing
else except along the same lines.

“I saw you flung
clear,” Mykel said. “I wasn’t sure you would survive, but we thought you
might.”

“For that, Captain, I
am most thankful.”

There were no
conditions or evasions in those words, for which Mykel was most grateful.

“We will be here for
several more days, at least,” the Submarshal said, “until we have healed
further. Overcaptain Dohark reports that all is calm and quiet in Dramuria, and
that there is no need for haste in our return.”

Mykel stifled a yawn.

“I think we have
tired Captain Mykel enough,” said the Submarshal.

After they had left,
Mykel took another swallow of the ale. Rachyla had hinted that the alectors
were different, and from what Mykel had seen, they definitely were. How the Submarshal
had survived a fall of over a hundred yards onto rock and sand—and was in
better shape with a broken arm and leg and bruises across his entire body than
Mykel was with a single gunshot wound to his shoulder—that was amazing.

Mykel looked down at the
binding across his left shoulder. Then he swallowed. He could tell that the
bullet had been far lower than he had thought. Men didn’t survive long where
he’d been shot… but he had. Had the Submarshal done something? Or had he just
been extraordinarily fortunate?