The Alliance (19 page)

“I should have anticipated better.” Peter allowed himself no opt-out clauses in his responsibilities, a trait shared by his children.

Anneke grasped the straw provided by logic. “Then you won’t let anything happen to her.”

“I’ll watch over her.” Peter qualified his answer, letting her take what comfort she could.

* * * *

Jack sensed the shark’s interest and stopped paddling, lying still on his makeshift raft as the predator circled. The headland was over a mile away. Passive sensing created no psychic signal and was safe, while any attempt to divert the beast would stand out like a beacon. He’d have to wait and watch.

Darkness was still his friend, just as it was with the Pontiff’s schooner. Poor seamanship had put them alongside his upturned boat with the last of the light, and a quick slash of his knife had parted the lashing of the oars and mast so they’d tumbled out when they righted the boat. The confusion gave him cover as he scrambled up the other side of the hull and found sanctuary in the noisome bilges of the main hold, lying there with only his nose above water during the first search at daylight. He left before the second, slipping over the side as soon as he heard the lookout’s hail that land was in sight. All their attention was on the shoreline and the seas were choppy enough to hide him, the schooner’s speed carrying her away before he surfaced.

The land search in the area of the semaphore station was a logical step, and he’d avoided it easily, keeping ahead of the expanding parties by running all night and stealing a ride in a drunken trader’s wagon during the day. If he could reach the headland undetected, he’d be on the same island as the Treaty Port.

A pressure wave confirmed the shark’s approach, and the twin logs jerked as it tested their texture with its teeth, gently at first, and then with a violent shake that came close to dislodging him. He hung on, thankful for the nine feet that separated him from the shark. He’d needed the two thirty-foot bamboos to give him flotation.

Satisfied, the shark sank from sight as a school of fish fleeing the commotion on the surface distracted it. Jack felt it go, but his raft was now six feet shorter and no longer buoyant enough to support him. His head went under the surface with every wave. It was time to abandon ship.

He rolled to one side, and the bamboo raft surged to the surface. Movement was dangerous so he relaxed in the water, one hand holding onto the raft, every sense alert for the predator’s return.

* * * *

Rachael woke in the pre-dawn stillness, surfacing from a dream of formless horror, and lay there until the pounding of her heart subsided. She couldn’t remember what frightened her, only the terror of an implacable enemy hovering, ready to strike. Two days had passed since her day in the garden and her night terrors following the guard’s comment, and she’d thought herself in control of her emotions. Obviously, she was wrong.

She rose from the couch and poured water from the jug into her washbasin, to lave the sweat of terror from her limbs and torso. The scented water felt good, its coolness on her burning skin a comfort, and she washed herself from head to foot.

The thick towel was fresh, her change in status not affecting the attentions of her servants. They still went about the business of providing her creature comforts with the same silent efficiency. They never spoke, never smiled, answered her questions with nods or gestures, and yet were ever-present, regardless of the hour. She rarely thought of them.

“Mistress,” said the older one, a male. “Will you break your fast?” It was the first speech she’d ever heard him make. Normally they waited for her instructions.

She felt grateful for his attention and uncomfortable because it felt wrong to have ignored him until now. If he was aware of her discomfort, he showed nothing, his expression of polite inquiry contained and impersonal.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

He gave his usual bow of acknowledgement and withdrew, leaving Rachael wondering at her inadequacies. She couldn’t remember acknowledging his attentions before. She hoped she’d done it unconsciously, but there was no conscious memory to reassure her. In her mind, he and his female companion had been part of the furniture from the beginning.

She assumed they were man and wife, or whatever variation of a conjugal relationship this planet boasted. Both were from the same minority ethnic group, taller and more handsome than the remaining population but without an identifiable homeland. Collectively called the Elite,
They Who Were Once Chosen
, any explanation of their title was lost in the mists of time. Questions drew a blank stare from the larger ethnic group, as if she asked why the sky was blue, and ignored by the Elite themselves. All the Pontiff’s wives came from the Elite, as did the majority of his senior priests, but not the guards or minor functionaries. A puzzling feature lay in the DNA gathered surreptitiously by the Federation. Both groups had identical patterns, with no more than the normal statistical variations common within a race. She’d heard one Federation scientist postulate that the Elite were the future of the others, individuals who had somehow short-circuited the evolutionary process.

It sounded nonsensical until she experienced the reality.

The male servant returned with a laden tray, his female companion two steps behind with the cutlery and napkins to set the buffet. “Mistress.”

“Thank you.” Rachael stepped clear to give them access.

She was tempted to believe she detected some sympathy in their manner, but too intellectually honest to allow herself to accept it. Off-worlders were not part of their society, just a passing nuisance they endured and then forgot. Her only chance was to be mistaken as one of them, and red hair was an oddity here.

“Your Federation colleagues are meeting the Pontiff today,” the woman said softly, her mouth close to Rachael’s ear, putting an end to any chance she’d been mistaken for one of the Elite by identifying her clearly as a Federation agent.

“Thank you,” Rachael said normally, knowing any listener would assume she was referring to the service.

The woman nodded and followed her companion from the room.

Rachael filled a plate from the buffet and sat down by the window, using the ledge as a table, a position she’d used more frequently since the curtailing of her freedom. She felt tempted to take her servants’ support at face value, but she didn’t dare. The Pontiff was the most likely source, pacifying her fears for these final days. The servants might know she was out of favor, but it was a gigantic leap to assume she was a Federation agent, not without some external source confirming it—the Pontiff most likely.

She saw the small procession heading toward the palace. It was too far away to distinguish faces, but the dark green of the Federation uniforms told her part of the woman’s story was true. She fought down a surge of unrealistic hope. She was still on her own. No Federation official would risk the treaty for an individual agent.

* * * *

The Pontiff didn’t rise when the four men entered the audience chamber. He’d scanned them routinely while they crossed the courtyard and was puzzled. Some new influence affected their attitude.

He concealed his anger. “Thank you for coming so promptly.” They’d presented themselves at the gates thirty minutes before the agreed time and their bows were niggardly.

“Holy Father?” the Federation ambassador asked, ignoring protocol.

The Pontiff didn’t respond. It would do no harm to make them wait, and he sensed a barrier in their minds. They had learned mind discipline and used it to limit his power. He would need time to unravel the threads.

“Holy Father?” The question was repeated, its tone sharper. The ambassador grew bolder.

“Leave me. Advise your superiors I am naming you
persona non grata
. You have forty-eight hours.” This would test their resolve.

The ambassador straightened, his shoulders stiffening in anger. “Holy Father, I am instructed to express the Federation’s concern for one of our citizens in your employ. She acts as a temple maiden under the name of Lorelei. Please have her report to the Federation Compound,” he paused to give emphasis to the insult, “within forty-eight hours.” The two audience chamber guards had their pikes at his throat now, but he ignored them. “Forty-eight hours.”

The guards tensed, waiting the order to kill, and the Pontiff was tempted. The treaty protected the Federation personnel, and naming the woman extended its protection to her as well. This was not the time for an angry response. He had forty-eight hours to break down their mind barrier and discover the Federation’s intentions.

“Your words confirm my decision.” He turned his head to the guards. “Escort the former ambassador to his compound and close all its exits until diplomatic relations are reestablished.” One more drain on his guards. He must find the spacer quickly and dispose of him, the woman too. He had forty-eight hours to reestablish his regime, or it would fall.

* * * *

Jack felt the weariness seeping into his muscles. He was inside fifty miles of the Treaty Port and the narrow escapes were coming hard and fast. He didn’t think he’d been identified positively yet, but time was running out. Eventually, he’d be just a fraction slow and they’d be on his heels, broadcasting his position to the world. He must go to ground for a while and let things cool down a little before going on.

He moved on, a denser shadow in the darkness.

The lightening of the eastern sky caught him still moving, crossing an open expanse over a mile wide. The woods beckoned on the further side, urging him to speed, but he knew haste was a trap and kept to the stealthy progress that had saved him so far. It allowed him to spot the camouflaged watchtower first and slip into the concealing shrubbery of a small copse in a dip of ground. The ground beneath him felt boggy with runoff from the rain showers the day before.

Half an hour later, the growing daylight showed him the men gathering for a sweep of the field, and he spotted the second and third watchtowers. He’d allowed weariness to suck him into a trap.

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty vision. They herded him skillfully by concentrations of guards, channeled into a suitable path to this field. He still doubted they’d seen him, just set a trap and hoped he’d fall into it. They probably searched this field the same way each morning. The thought gave him pause.
Was there a glimmer of hope in the regularity of the task? Could he exploit the carelessness of men following a routine
?

He set himself to scan their minds, accepting the risk of raising his profile by doing more than passive listening. With luck, his grandfather would understand.

It was hard going. These were largely palace guards, discontented with interruption to their normal duties and unused to living in the field. They would vent their spleen on the cause of their discomfort if they captured him. He shrugged and continued his search. Dying from the rough handling by his captors might be preferable to what waited him at the temple.

He chased down a stray thought regarding Lorelei and lived the guard’s memory of warning her about the
auto-da-fe
. The deliberate cruelty made him angry until he clamped down on the emotion and returned to his task. He could serve her best by evading capture.

The first hint of a solution was elusive, the guard’s embarrassment hiding the details. The men on either side had laughed until tears ran down their cheeks and the sergeant cursed him as an addle-pated fool, buffeting his shoulders soundly for his stupidity and he was determined to give them no repeat cause. Jack cleared his mind of everything except the picture in the guard’s mind and left the bushes. It would be a close run for him to reach the spot and prepare.

* * * *

“He needs help,” Anneke said. “You’re asking too much of him.”

“I’ll meet you halfway.” Peter acting reasonable was a danger sign. He’d caught her too often. “Go and watch over him, but don’t interfere unless he asks for help.”

“That’s no concession,” she said. “There’s too much of you in him. He’ll never ask for help.”

“The best I can do.” Peter was offhand, part of his mind far away. “Don’t interfere unless he asks specifically. Stay in Limbo.”

She opened her mouth to protest and met his eyes. She saw no give in them. She could wheedle her way around Karrel, her mother, and the absent Jean-Paul, but Peter, in this mood, was another matter. Karrel called it his battle rage, the fixed focus that came when he was juggling lives against results. It meant things were coming to a head on the Pontiff’s world and Peter had all the balls in the air at once.

Anneke closed her mouth, nodded, and left.

Limbo was a strange place, named by Peter when he came first to this world. It existed outside the physical universe. A pale blue void reachable only by those who could translocate—shift from location to location by pure mental effort—it had many properties. Within its boundaries, time could be manipulated, vast distances covered instantly, and many places monitored intimately. A physically created version of opposite polarity was the heart of the space portals giving instant transport across the universe. She, Karrel, and Peter had helped Gabrielle’s people develop it thirty-five millennia ago.

For the moment, Anneke used its simplest property, the ability to monitor events without detection.