Ruler of Naught (53 page)

“Arkad!” came Vi’ya’s voice. “We’re going to have to run for
it. Can you keep off the mines?”

... his immature wings flapped uselessly, stirring up
clouds of myrrh. He opened his beak, a harsh cry emerged and died away.

“I can.” It was his own voice, from a distance.

“Marim! Give him control of the teslas.”

... the beasts lunged at the nest, fell back, raked by
his claws, then lunged again. the shadow of immense wings fell across him. a
beast howled as a vast claw broke its back...

Marim let out a yell of triumph. “You got one of ‘em.
They’re scattering! Kiss my radiants, blungesuckers!”

... and then he felt himself lifted into the air as the
glory of the descending Phoenix burned around him...

Vi’ya’s voice cut in, sharp-edged: “That wasn’t a missile
strike! Ivard. How—”

Her words were drowned by the terrifying squeal-rumble of a
ruptor beam. The glyphs dwindled back into the grid.

Brandon woke to the reality of the bridge as the ship began
to vibrate, and he felt every bone and tooth vibrate with it. His hands gripped
his console as the sound dropped toward the deadly subsonics that would break
apart the ship. On the viewscreen the bright coin that marked the death of a
ship was fading away. The radiants of the others dwindled as they fled, but not
fast enough: one by one they flared into brightness and vanished.

“Ruptor!” Montrose leapt forward and hit his console. The
bridge appeared. Omilov gazed at the blurring picture.

“Who’s out there?” Montrose yelled.

The captain didn’t seem to hear them. “Karra-chatz nafar... ”
Vi’ya cursed, jabbing at her console with no success. The ship bucked but did
not respond.

But the ruptor stabilized short of disruption, halting at a
deep thrumming that made Omilov’s eye sockets ache and his sinuses begin to
water.

“Point-five light-seconds and closing.” Ivard’s voice shook,
his breathing harsh.

Marim said flatly into her comm: “Never mind override,
Jaim—drive cavity’s gone.”

Suddenly a harsh voice modulated out of the deep hum: “HAILING
CHANNEL ONE, HAILING CHANNEL ONE... ”

The captain’s teeth bared as she slammed her hand down on
her console. “Acknowledge.”

In grim silence Omilov and the others in the dispensary
watched Lokri fight to get the vibrating ship to respond. The hum intensified,
and trouble lights began to flash on Marim’s board.

“Hurry, damn you, it’s shaking us apart!” Marim yelled.

“I’m—trying—” Lokri muttered, his face green-tinged with
nausea. Sparks from his console made him swear and slap frantically at the
keypads. “There,” he said, wringing his hands. “But all I can give him back is
audio, and if they don’t release us, we’ll lose even that.”

Vi’ya slapped a key and they all looked up at the main
screen, which was echoed in a subsidiary window on the dispensary console.

A man’s face appeared, a hard face with an iron-colored
beard. The man was dressed in faultless blues. Omilov stared in blank amazement
as he said, “This is His Majesty’s battlecruiser
Mbwa Kali
, Captain
Mandros Nukiel commanding. Shut down all systems and assemble all hands,
passengers, sophonts and sentients in your main lock.”

“Acknowledged.” Vi’ya’s voice was flat and cold.

The screen blanked. Vi’ya jabbed viciously at her console,
and the sound of the engines died. The subsonic hum dropped to a low level, and
Omilov began to breathe again. The Telvarna jolted as the ruptor shifted to
tractor mode.

Lokri shifted the main screen to a view of space. The bridge
crew, and those inside the dispensary, watched the bright dot of light growing
with frightening speed. As it resolved into a familiar silver egg-shape, Vi’ya
looked back at the imager.

“Your wish has just been granted, gnostor,” she said.

Osri gave a long sigh of relief. “Now we’ll be safe.”

“If they don’t line us up and shoot us,” Lokri said.

Vi’ya turned on him. “You may wish they had. Why do you
think they’re hanging around Rifthaven? They want information and they want it
badly.”

The cruiser filled the screens, its smooth hull redly
reflecting the light of the distant sun. As hundreds of meters of silver,
bristling with antennae and weapons nacelles, passed by, a splash of color
quickly resolved into a blazon on the hull. A stylized painting of a
fierce-eyed dog appeared, and above it the Sun and Phoenix of the Panarchy of the
Thousand Suns.

Omilov transferred his gaze to Brandon, whose profile was
just visible from the angle of the spy-eye. His face, as much as one could read
beyond the distortion of swellings and bruises, was utterly expressionless.

“Father, you’ll want to get dressed,” Osri said.

Omilov glanced distractedly at his robe, then turned back to
the console.

I wish I could believe that this will guarantee safety,
he
thought
. But I’m beginning to think there can be no safety, no surety, ever
again.

On the bridge, the consoles flickered, went dark, and the
emergency lighting came on.

Brandon had still been staring up at the cruiser’s blazon.
What
was he thinking?

He has made a full circle.

The thought brought with it a sense of grief for all those
who had died since the holocaust in the Mandala’s Ivory Hall.

Despite the unexpected turn in their fortunes, Omilov’s mood
was somber as he began changing into the tunic Montrose had given him.

o0o

On the bridge of the Mbwa Kali, Captain Mandros Nukiel sat
back and sighed, trying to ease a neck stiff with tension. “SigInt, status?”

“Powering down per protocol, sir. Sensors indicate ten humans,
two of them possibly children, three smaller quadruped signatures. All heading
for the main lock per your order.”

Nukiel gave orders to augment the lock party with two
wranglers—at least it wasn’t snakes this time—then turned to his tactical
officer.

“Lieutenant Rogan.”

The short, square woman looked up with faint inquiry. “Sir.
Do you want me to oversee this interrogation?”

“I’d like a shot at this one,” Commander Efriq said
unexpectedly, turning to Nukiel from where he’d been conferring with the ensign
on the environmental console. The dapper first officer’s face showed the strain
that was weighing on all of them, but his uniform’s creases were as razor-sharp
as ever. “That old Columbiad has some interesting modifications, and it’s
considerably better kept than most of the trash we’ve picked up lately.”

Nukiel blinked, fighting off fatigue as he looked back and
forth between the two officers. Rogan gazed back at him, her eyes steady,
though her face, too, was marked with exhaustion. He swept his gaze over the
rows of bridge officers, each busy at his or her console. He could feel their
tension as well.

“Very well, Commander.”

Efriq saluted and left the bridge.

Rogan turned back to her console; he sensed mild
disappointment.

The Rifters they’d intercepted so far had known nothing
useful, and they were no closer to capturing one of the mysterious hyperwaves. No
doubt Efriq hoped that this interrogation would be different.

It had better be. Their mood had been grim before they came
around the gas giant after an unsuccessful chase and discovered this firefight.
The identification of two craft registered on bonus chips, and the presence of
so many targets within reach, had been enough to decide Nukiel’s intervention:
to take their target and clean space of the other vermin. But now Rifthaven
knew they were there.

Some of those ships may have fired on the Mandala.
His
mouth tightened
. We ran a little wild there, but I can’t regret it.

o0o

Ivard stared at the hatch through which they would shortly exit
to face the Panarchist forces. The emergency lighting made the lock gloomy, and
the air felt stuffy and thick, but Ivard knew the power hadn’t been off long
enough to really make a difference. He swallowed, his shoulder aching with
renewed fire. Montrose glanced down at him and touched his good arm. “We’ll be
all right,” he rumbled.

Ivard rubbed a sweaty hand down the sides of his jumpsuit,
carefully not moving his bad side. He’d felt so good after the visit to the
Kelly, but it wasn’t lasting.

He studied the nicks standing at the back of the lock. Only
Osri looked pleased; his father rubbed absently at his left arm. Brandon stood
behind them, holding Trev and Gray’s leashes, one in each hand. His gaze was
distant, his face closed. The dogs were sitting alertly, ears flicking at the
clanking sounds that came at intervals through the hull. They were panting
slightly.

Marim and Lokri stood together, with Jaim nearby. The
engineer had the blank expression he’d worn since the day they found Dis
blasted and his mate dead. The familiar violet of grief bloomed behind Ivard’s
ribs when he thought of his sister.
I’m glad you didn’t live to see us
captured by nicks, Greywing,
he thought. It didn’t help.

At the front of the lock, Vi’ya stood with the Eya’a, like a
trinity of statues, utterly still. Ivard could see the coiled anger in her tight
shoulders. She too held a leash, to a harness on Lucifur. The big cat was
sitting, but his tail lashed restlessly.

For once the whisper of voices inside Ivard’s head was
still, leaving him able to think about what was happening. Did that mean more
danger—or less? He shivered as the violet bloomed into blue, sending ice along
his nerves. That happened a lot now. The Kelly surgeon had told him it was to
be expected.
The Archon whose genetic material you bear came from a warm
planet,
they’d said.
Try to stay warm.

Something clanged outside the lock, and an amplified voice roared
through the hull: “YOU’VE GOT ATMOSPHERE NOW. OPEN UP.”

Vi’ya handed the leash to Montrose and hauled viciously on
the manual hatch release. The lever came down with an agonized screech, and the
hatch separated slightly along its central seam. She stepped back. Two immense
metal hands shot through the gap and slammed the hatch open.

Ivard gasped as the painful, blinding light silhouetted the
hulking form of a Marine in battle armor at one side of the lock. Behind him,
others held firejacs aimed directly at the
Telvarna
’s crew. A ramp had
been pushed up to the ship’s side, since the
Telvarna’s
couldn’t deploy
without power.

The Marine’s voice came through his suitcomm, loud and
slightly distorted: “Hands on your heads. Exit the lock one at a time.”

Vi’ya walked through the hatch with one hand on her head,
the other holding Lucifur’s leash. Ivard could hear her anger in the ring of
her boots on the ramp. The Marines on either side stepped back a pace when the
tiny Eya’a appeared, but their weapons remained steady.

Marim made to follow but the Marine blocked her path with
one huge arm.

Ivard stood on tiptoe, trying to see what was happening. A
uniformed man approached Vi’ya and ran a wand up and down her body. He looked
at the Eya’a, his face tight, and spoke into a pin mike. A moment later he
dropped the wand to his side. A woman in a green uniform, a leather tunic and
trousers, approached Vi’ya and asked a question that Ivard couldn’t hear. After
a brief discussion, the woman gave Vi’ya a collar of some sort, which the
captain slipped onto Lucifur’s neck. The man with the wand waved them on, and
the nick in battle gear motioned Marim out of the lock.

When Ivard’s turn came, he winced as his half-healed flesh
pulled, and his hand dropped. He clutched it tight to his chest, the other
pressed against his head. One of the battle suits stepped toward him, the
servos in the armor whining, and Ivard stumbled hastily into line behind Marim.

Now Ivard could see the squat form of a self-mobile plasma
cannon aimed squarely at the lock. He swallowed convulsively.

Behind him, Osri’s steps rang on the steel decking. “Listen,
I’m a—” he began.

“CUT THE YAP AND MOVE,” came the amplified voice.

Osri gasped, and despite his gnawing fear, Ivard sneaked a
look behind him. Osri looked mortally offended. A snicker at Ivard’s shoulder,
and there was Marim’s mirthful face.

“Be careful of that one,” she whispered, jerking her head in
Osri’s direction while looking up at the blank battle-armor visor. “He’s the
sort gives Rifters a bad name.”

“Got a temper, too,” drawled Lokri. “Sometimes have to lock
him up.”

Ivard snickered at the outrage on Osri’s face, and the
wicked glee on Marim’s. He moved closer to her.

“That’s enough gabble,” snapped a Marine. He thrust the
muzzle of his jac between Ivard and Marim, knocking Ivard back a step.

Ivard bit against a yell as the weapon brushed his bad
shoulder, and his arm dropped. He brought the other down and clutched it tight
against him, wincing against fresh waves of pain. The muttering voices mounted
in his head and the fog of confusion that had been his lot so often of late
closed in.

“Get your hand up—”

“He’s wounded,” Montrose said, his deep voice threatening.
“Burn.”

Ivard stumbled forward, muzzily wondering where his other
two voices were, as, one by one, the
Telvarna
’s crew and passengers were
taken through a hatch and down a corridor.

o0o

Osri watched as Ivard walked down the ramp. The boy’s good
arm began to twist in a sinuous pattern, his pace revealing a rhythmic hitch. Nausea
gripped Osri, and he wondered what poison that Kelly ribbon was shooting
through Ivard’s bloodstream.

Then it was Osri’s turn. At least four large-bore jacs
tracked him as he approached the man with the wand. Fear tingled through him. Surely
they wouldn’t shoot a Naval officer!

They don’t know you‘re an officer,
the voice of
reason yammered in his skull.
You were on a Rifter ship and you won’t get a
chance to tell them until they’ve secured the whole crew.
A fresh burst of
rage shook him as he remembered Marim’s and Lokri’s comments.
They were
trying to get me shot! Well, the jac will be in the other hand, once this is straightened
out.