Dragonsdawn (28 page)

“Kenjo is a very capable technician,” Emily insisted.

“There should be two on the mission, for safety’s sake,” Ezra said, furrowing his brow. “This mission has got to give us the results we need.”

“Zi Ongola,” Paul suggested.

“Yes, the very one,” Ezra agreed. “If he runs into any trouble, I can have Stev at the interface for expert advice.”

“Forty years, huh?” Emily said, watching Paul underline the two final choices on the pad. “Rather longer than we’d bargained for, my friend. Let’s start training replacements.”

Inevitably their thoughts went to Wind Blossom, so obviously a frail vessel to continue the work her grandmother had begun.

Avril’s suspicious nature was aroused not by anything she heard, although what she did not hear was as significant, but by what she saw in the weary hours she manned the sled’s scope. It was usually trained on the
Mariposa
, sitting at the far end of the landing grid. The night before every one of Kenjo’s jaunts he had done exterior and internal checks of the craft. Fussy Fusi! Her use of the nickname was not quite derisive, because she simply could not figure out how he had managed to stretch the small reserve of fuel on the
Mariposa
as far as he already had. She had seen some activity about it last night but no sign of Kenjo. In fact, with neither moon out, she had just barely seen the shifting of shadow that indicated activity about the craft. She had been quite agitated. The only thing that reassured her was that several figures were involved. But no one entered the gig. That perplexed her.

At first light, so early that no one was yet working the donks at the skeleton of the shuttle that had been the center of considerable activity all week, she was surprised to see Fulmar Stone and Zi Ongola approaching the vessel. Her apprehension, honed by weeks of waiting, spurred her to remove the protective cover from her sled in preparation for a quick departure. At full speed, she could reach the landing grid in less than fifteen minutes. Early morning traffic into Landing would be sufficient to give her cover.

She had a moment’s anxiety thinking that perhaps the
Mariposa
had developed a problem and they were scavenging replacement parts from the shuttle. Kenjo had flown a mission three days before with his usual economical takeoff and landing. She had to hand it to him—he was gliding in smoothly with no power at all. Only where was he getting the fuel to lift?

The three men, moving with almost stealthy speed, slipped inside the little spaceship and closed the airlock. Well, the access to the engines was through exterior panels, so she began to relax. They remained inside the ship for three hours, long enough for a full interior systems check. But that did not presage a usual flight. Maybe the
Mariposa
was bollixed. Scorch Kenjo for ineptitude. The
Mariposa
had to be space-worthy. Avril swore.

Or had something happened to Kenjo so that Ongola was taking the ship up? But how? There could not be much fuel left. So why were they checking internal systems? Why were they making yet another jaunt? Displeased, Avril finished her preparations to fly.

Sallah Telgar-Andiyar was feeding her daughter her breakfast in the shady covered porch of Mairi Hanrahan’s Asian Square house when she caught sight of a familiar figure striding down the path. It was covered by loose overalls, and a peaked cap was pulled well down over the face, but the walk was undeniably Avril’s, especially from the rear. Never mind the greasy hands, the exhaust pipe carried so ostentatiously in one hand, the clipboard in the other. That was Avril, who only sullied her hands for a good cause. No one had seen her since she had left Big Island. Sallah continued to watch until Avril mingled in with the crowd at the main depot, where technicians jostled one another for parts and materiel.

Ever since Sallah had overheard Avril’s conversation with Kimmer, she had known the woman would attempt to leave Pern. Did Avril know of Kenjo’s fuel dump? Irritably Sallah shook her head. Cara blinked her huge brown eyes and stared apprehensively at her mother.

“Sorry, love, your mother’s mind is klicks away.” Sallah gathered more puree on the spoon and deposited it into Cara’s obediently open mouth. No, Sallah told herself fiercely, because she wanted to believe it so badly, Avril could not have discovered that fuel: she had been too busy mining gemstones on Big Island. At least, up until three weeks before. And where has Avril been since then? Sallah asked herself. Watching while Kenjo flew the
Mariposa
? That would certainly set Avril Bitra to thinking hard.

Well, Sallah was due on her shift soon anyway, and as luck would have it, the sled she was servicing was on the grid. She would have a clear view of the
Mariposa
and those who approached it. If Avril came anywhere near, Sallah would set up an alarm.

There had been no talk of Kenjo making another attempt to clear Thread in the atmosphere. Then, too, Kenjo’s flights were usually plotted for the dawn window, and Sallah’s shift began well past that time.

It all happened rather quickly. Sallah was walking toward the sled she was servicing as Ongola and Kenjo, suited for space travel, left the tower with Ezra Keroon, Dieter Clissmann, and two other overalled figures whom Sallah was astonished to recognize by their postures as Paul and Emily. Ongola and Kenjo had the appearance of men listening to last-minute instructions. Then they continued on, almost at a stroll, toward the
Mariposa
, while the others turned back into the met tower. Suddenly another suited figure began to walk across the grid on a path that would intercept Ongola and Kenjo. Even in the baggy space gear the figure walked as only Avril did!

Sallah grabbed the nearest big spanner and started at a jogtrot across the grid. Ongola and Kenjo disappeared behind the pile of discarded sled parts at the edge of the field. Avril had begun to run, and Sallah increased her own pace. She lost sight of Ongola and Kenjo. Then she saw Avril pick up a short strut from the pile and disappear out of sight.

Rounding the pile, Sallah saw both Kenjo and Ongola flat on the ground. Blood covered the back of Kenjo’s head and Ongola’s shoulder and neck. Sallah ran flat out, ducking down to keep scrap heaps between her and the
Mariposa
. As it was, she just made it as the airlock was closing. She threw herself inside and felt something scrape her left foot; there was an immense hissing, and then she blacked out.

M
AIRI
H
ANRAHAN THOUGHT
it odd that Sallah had not rung at lunchtime to tell her she was delayed. With so many small ones to feed, every mother tried to be there at mealtimes. Mairi got one of her older children to feed Cara instead, thinking that something very important must have demanded Sallah’s attention.

None of the people at the met tower or admin building expected any contact from Ongola or Kenjo while the shuttle was moving through the ionized atmosphere. Ezra, seated at the desk of the voice-activated interface, could follow its course via the activated monitor screens on board the
Yokohama
. The
Mariposa
was closing fast and soon reached the docking port. “Safely there,” Ezra announced when he rang through to both tower and administration.

Half an hour later, children playing at the edge of the grid came screaming back to their teacher about the dead men. Actually, Ongola was still barely alive. Paul met the medic team at the infirmary.

“He’ll live, but he’s lost more blood than I like,” the doctor told the admiral. “What ’n hell happened to him and Kenjo?”

“How was Kenjo killed?” Paul asked.

“The old blunt instrument. The paras found a bloodied strut nearby. Probably that. Kenjo never knew what hit him.”

Paul was not sure he did either, for his legs suddenly would not support him. The doctor beckoned fiercely for one of the paras to help the admiral to a seat and poured a glass of quikal.

Paul tried to dismiss the eager hands. The implications of the two deaths greatly disturbed him. There was no antidote for Kenjo’s loss, though the wretched quikal eased the intense shock that had rocked him. In the back of his mind, as he knocked back the drink, he wondered where Kenjo had cached the rest of the fuel. Why, Paul seethed at himself, had he not asked the man before? He could have done so any time before or after the last few flights Kenjo had taken in the
Mariposa.
As admiral, he knew exactly how much fuel had been left in the gig on its last drop. Now it was too late! Unless Ongola knew. He had mentioned to Paul that there was not much left at the original site, but that Kenjo had been supplying the
Mariposa.
The figures Sallah had initially reported to Ongola indicated a lot more fuel than Paul had seen in that cave the other night. Well, the misappropriation—yes, that was the right term—had had a final appropriate usage. Maybe Kenjo’s wife knew where he had stored the remainder.

Paul consoled himself with that thought. Kenjo’s wife would certainly know if there were more fuel sacks at the Honshu stake. He forced himself to deal with present issues: a man had been murdered and another lay close to death on a planet that had, until that moment, witnessed no capital crime.

“Ongola will survive,” the doctor was saying, pouring Paul a second shot. “He’s got a splendid constitution, and we’ll work any miracle required. We would probably have saved Kenjo if we’d got there earlier. Brain-dead. Drink this—your color’s lousy.”

Paul finished the quikal and put the glass down with a decisive movement. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. “I’m fine, thanks. Get on with saving Ongola. We’ll need to know what happened when he recovers consciousness. Keep the rumors down, people!” he added, addressing the others in the room.

He strode out of the emergency facility and turned immediately for the building that housed the interface chamber and Ezra. As he walked, he reviewed the puzzle that rattled his orderly mind. He had seen the
Mariposa
take off. Who had flown her? He stopped off to collect Emily from her office, briefing her on the calamity. Ezra was surprised by the arrival of both admiral and governor; the
Mariposa’s
current flight was being treated as routine.

“Kenjo’s dead and Ongola seriously injured, Ezra,” Paul said as soon as he had closed and locked the door behind them. “So, who’s flying the
Mariposa
?”

“Gods in the heavens!” Ezra leapt to his feet and pointed to the monitor, which clearly showed the safely docked
Mariposa.
“The flight was precalculated to hit the right window, but the docking process was left to the pilot. It was very smoothly done. Not everyone can do that.”

“I’ll run a check on the whereabouts of pilots, Paul,” Emily said, picking up a handset.

Paul glanced at the monitor. “I don’t think we need to do that. Call—” Paul had started to say “Ongola” and rubbed his hand across his face. “Who’s at the met tower?”

“Jake Chernoff and Dieter Clissman,” Emily reported.

“Then ask Jake if there’s any unmodified sleds on the grid. Find out exactly where Stev Kimmer, Nabol Nahbi, and Bart Lemos are. And—” Paul held up a warning hand. “—if anyone’s seen Avril Bitra anywhere.”

“Avril?” Ezra echoed, and then clamped his mouth firmly shut.

Suddenly Paul swore in a torrent of abusive language that made even Ezra regard him with amazement, and slammed out of the room. Emily concentrated on finding the pilots and had completed her check before Paul returned. He leaned back against the closed door, catching his breath.

“Stev, Nabhi, and Lemos are accounted for. Where did you go?” Emily asked.

“To check Ongola’s space suit. Doc says he’ll recover from his injuries. The strut just missed severing the shoulder muscle and leaving him a cripple. But—” Paul held up a crystal packet between forefinger and thumb. “No one is going to get very far in the
Mariposa
.” He nodded grimly as Ezra realized what the admiral was holding. “One of the more essential parts of the guidance system! Ongola had not yet put it in place.”

“Then how did—Avril?” Emily asked, pausing for confirmation. Paul nodded slowly. “Yes, it has to be Avril, doesn’t it? But why would she want to get to the
Yoko
?”

“First step to leaving the system, Emily. We’ve been stupidly lax. Yes, I know we have this,” he acknowledged when Emily pointed to the chip panel. “But we shouldn’t have allowed her to get that far in the first place. And we all knew what she was like. Sallah warned us, and the years . . .”

“And recent unusual events,” Ezra put in, mildly hinting that Paul need not excoriate himself.

“We should have guarded the
Mariposa
as long as she’d an ounce of fuel in her.”

“We also ought to have had the sense to ask Kenjo where he was getting all that fuel,” Ezra added.

“We knew that,” Emily said with a wry grin.

“You did?” Ezra was amazed.

“At least Ongola took no chances,” Paul went on, wincing as he remembered the sight of the man’s battered shoulder and neck. “This—” He put the guidance chip very carefully down on the shelf above his worktop. “—was Ongola’s special precaution, done with Kenjo’s complete concurrence.”

Emily sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “So where does that leave us now?”

“The next move would appear to be Avril’s.” Ezra shook his head sadly. “She’s got more than enough fuel to get back down.”

“That is not her intention,” Paul said.

“Unfortunately,” Emily said, “she has a hostage, whether she knows it or not. Sallah Telgar-Andiyar is also missing.”

Sallah returned to consciousness aware of severe discomfort and a throbbing pain in her left foot. She was bound tightly and efficiently in an uncomfortable position, her hands behind her back and secured to her tied feet. She was floating with her side just brushing the floor of the spacecraft; the lack of gravity told her that she was no longer on Pern. There was a rhythmic but unpleasant background noise, along with the sounds of things clattering and slipping about.

Then she recognized the monotonous and vicious sounds to be the curses of Avril Bitra.

“What in hell did you
do
to the guidance systems, Telgar?” she asked, kicking at the bound woman’s ribs.

The kick lifted Sallah off the floor, and she found herself floating within inches of the face of an enraged Avril Bitra. Probably the only reason Sallah was still breathing was because the cabin of the
Mariposa
had its own oxygen supply. Kenjo would have charged the tanks up to full, wouldn’t he? Sallah asked herself in a moment of panic as she continued to float beyond Avril. The other woman was suited; the helmet sat on the rack above the pilot’s seat, ready for use.

Avril reached up and grabbed Sallah’s arm. “What do you know about this? Tell me and be quick about it, or I’ll evacuate you and save the air for me to breathe!”

Sallah had no doubt that the woman was capable of doing just that. “I know nothing about anything, Avril. I saw you stalking Ongola and Kenjo and knew you were up to something. So I followed you and got in the airlock just as you took off.”

“You followed me?” Avril lashed out with a fist. The impact caused both women to bounce apart. Avril steadied herself on a handhold. “How dare you?”

“Well, as I hadn’t seen you in months and longed to know how you were faring, it seemed a good idea at the time.” Hang for the fleece, hang for the sheep, Sallah thought. She could not shrug her shoulders. What had she done to her foot? It was an aching mess.

“Bloody hell. You’ve flown this frigging crate. How do I override the preflight instructions? You must know that.”

“I might if you’d let me see the console.” She saw hope, and then manic doubt, in Avril’s eyes. Sallah was not lying. “How could I possibly tell from over here? I don’t know where we are. I’ve been just another Thread sledder.” Even to a woman slightly paranoid, the truth would be obvious. Sallah warned herself to be very careful. “Just let me look.”

She did not ask to be untied although that was what she desperately wanted—needed. Her right shoulder must have been bruised by her fall into the cabin, and all the muscles were spasming.

“Don’t think I’ll untie you,” Avril warned, and contemptuously she pushed Sallah across the cabin. Grabbing a handhold, she corrected Sallah’s spin to a painful halt against the command console. “Look!”

Sallah did, though hanging slightly upside down was not the best position for the job. She had to think carefully, for Avril had piloted shuttles and knew something of their systems. But the
Mariposa,
though small, was designed to traverse interplanetary distances, dock with a variety of stations or other craft, and had the sophisticated controls to perform a considerable variety of maneuvers in space and on a planetary surface. Sallah dared to hope that much of its instrumentation would be unfamiliar to Avril.

“To find out what this ship just did,” she instructed, “hit the return button on the bottom tier of the greens. No, the port side.”

Avril jerked at Sallah, tweaking strained arm and back muscles and jamming Sallah’s head against the viewscope. Sallah’s long hair was freed completely from its pins and flowed over her face.

“Don’t get cute!” Avril snapped, her finger hovering on the appropriate button. “This one?”

Sallah nodded, floating away again. Avril punched the button with one hand and hauled her back into position with the other. Then she caught the handhold to keep herself in place. Every action has a reaction, Sallah thought, trying to clear her head of pain and confusion.

The monitor came up with a preflight instruction plan.

“The
Mariposa
was programmed to dock here on the
Yoko
.” It was nice to know where she was, Sallah reflected. “Once you hit the power, you couldn’t alter its course.”

“Well,” Avril said, her tone altering considerably. “I wanted to come here first anyhow. I just wanted to come on my own.” Sallah, hair falling over her face, felt a lessening of the tension that emanated from the woman. Some of the beauty returned to a face no longer contorted with frustration. “I don’t need you hanging about, then.” Avril reached up and gave Sallah’s body a calculated shove that sent her to the opposite end of the cabin, to bump harmlessly against the other wall and then hover there. “Well, I’ll just get to work.”

How long Sallah was suspended in that fashion she did not know. She managed to tilt her head and get her hair to float away from her eyes, but she did not dare to move much—action produced reaction, and she did not wish to draw attention to herself. She ached all over, but the pain in her foot was almost unbearable.

A tirade of malevolent and resentful oaths spun from Avril’s lips. “None of the programs run, of all the frigging luck. Nothing runs!”

Sallah had just enough time to duck her head to avoid Avril’s projectile arrival against her. As it was, she went head over heels in a spin that Avril, laughing gleefully, assisted until the rotation made Sallah retch.

“You bitch woman!” Avril stopped Sallah before she could expel more vomit into the air. “Okay! If that’s the way of it, you know what I need to know. And you’re going to tell me, or I’ll kill you by inches.” A spaceman’s knife, with its many handlepacked implements, sliced across the top of Sallah’s nose.

Then she felt the blade none too gently cutting the bindings on her hands and feet. Blood rushed through starved arteries, and her strained muscles reacted painfully. If she had not been in free-fall, she would have collapsed. As it was, the agony of release made her sob and shake.

“Clean up your spew first,” Avril said, shoving a slop jar at her.

Sallah did as she was told, grateful for the lack of gravity, grateful for the release, and wondering what she could do to gain an upper hand. But she had little opportunity to enjoy her freedom, for Avril had other ways of securing her prisoner’s cooperation.

Before Sallah realized what was happening, Avril had secured a tether to the injured foot and tweaked the line. Pain, piercing like a shard of glass, shot through Sallah’s leg and up to her groin. There was too little left in her stomach to throw up. Avril jerked Sallah over to the console, pushed her into the pilot’s chair, and tied her down, twiching her improvised lead line to remind Sallah of her helplessness.

“Now, check the fuel on board, check the quantity in the
Yoko
’s tanks—I’ve done that, I know the answers, so don’t try anything clever.” A jerk against Sallah’s injured foot reinforced the threat. “Then enter a program that gets me out of this wretched asshole of a midden system.”