The Phoenix in Flight (61 page)

This one is much smarter than I gave him credit for. He
may be worth some time.

“That’s a wise attitude, but don’t ever refer to me as
Dol’jharian where one of the Pure Blood can hear you. I’m a Bori, and they
don’t take kindly to being confused with us.”

He motioned Anderic back to the chair. “But don’t leave just
yet. I’d like you to tell me more about Tallis and the logos. How is it
controlled without the crew finding out, and how did you discover it?”

As Anderic began to explain, not without some reluctance,
Barrodagh stroked his thumb covertly below his desk, and weighed the pros and
cons of replacing Tallis.
But first I must judge the level of this one’s
ambitions. He appears intelligent enough not to overreach himself—more so than
that fool Y’Marmor—but one can never tell with Rifters.

He settled back in his chair and began to listen between the
Rifter’s words, measuring his character with the skills born of years of
service in circumstances where the slightest slip could mean an agonizing
death. It didn’t occur to him until later that that was an entirely accurate
description of the Rifter environment, too.

o0o

Guardsman Remmet stood rigidly in front of the door, his cap
at the regulation angle, his firejac held at exactly forty-five degrees across
his chest, and tried in vain to stop the churning in his gut. He had been a
Tarkan in the personal service of the Avatar for most of his life, hardened by
the savage discipline that every Dol’jharian soldier took for granted, but
never had he heard sounds anything like those emanating from within the room
behind him. The palpable agony in them defeated every effort he made at a
ward-trance. His neck muscles tightened at each new scream.

Remmet was not an imaginative man, but he could still feel
the glance senx-lo Evodh had raked him with less than an hour before as he
arrived to begin the transfiguration of the Panarchist. The look from the pesz
mas’hadni had penetrated to every bone and tendon of his body, as if noting
every vulnerable point of the fragile flesh before him and then dismissing it
as unworthy of his efforts.

He’d thought at first he would enjoy the slow destruction of
one of these weak, degenerate nicks whom they had defeated so easily. But the
enjoyment had dulled soon to an anxious kind of tedium, escalating slowly to
this skull-scraping aural torment that had nothing to do with the honorable
risks of battle.

With all his soul he prayed to Dol in his incarnation as the
Lord of Vengeance that he would never suffer the attentions of the tall man
with the karra-patterns lacquered on his domed skull. He fought in vain against
the part of his mind that insisted on imagining the torments whose effects he
was hearing. The worst was that he had no idea what they were. Then, as a
particularly horrible and liquid shriek from within scraped his ears, he
stiffened his spine and concentrated on the painting on the wall across the
corridor from him. His watch would be over in three hours. Those would be the
longest hours of his life.

The character of the corridors was changing: narrower, less
elegant. The lower ceilings made Montrose feel cramped. The fire doors came at
irregular intervals, usually with steps up or down. There had been no sign of
dogs for a while, and very few access hatches.

“Damn! This place is big,” Lokri muttered, quickening his
pace.

“It’s a
palace,”
Montrose said, easily keeping pace
with his long strides. “It’s
supposed
to be big.”

On his other side Ivard chortled, his cheeks hectically
flushed. He seemed to be happy, though. Montrose smiled at Ivard, hoping that
the flush was excitement and exertion, and not mounting fever from the Kelly
ribbon on his arm. “Enjoying it, are you, Firehead?”

“This is like a chip,” Ivard exclaimed. “Better!” He raised
his jac and sighted along it as he ran. “Hope we find some o’ those
Dol’jharians.”

“No you don’t,” Greywing said, thumping his arm as she paced
alongside him. “Vacuumskull.”

“Well, I hope we find some dogs, anyway.” He looked at
Brandon. “Will we?” His voice definitely betrayed a febrile edge.

Brandon glanced at Montrose. “They almost never come into
this area.”

“Why not?” Ivard looked around. “I know! Maybe they see
spooks. Old Hegemonist spooks, or the people they killed down here.” Greywing
looked as though she were about to speak, then grimaced and pounded on, gaze
downward.

The Krysarch changed pace, trotting next to Montrose. “Can
you do anything about that Kelly ribbon?”

Montrose shook his head. “Certainly none of the meds in our
sortie packs will help,” he said softly. “And even back in my surgery on the
Telvarna
...”
He frowned. “All of the ribbon-melds discussed in my chip on Kelly biology date
from the era of Third Contact. There were no successful excisions, but of
course there were no Kelly physicians available until the Act of Comity ended
hostilities.”

“So it’s poisoning him?” Brandon said. “He looks feverish.”

“Yes,” Montrose admitted. “And even if I were to take his
arm off, the ribbon’s genome has likely already diffused through his body at
the cellular level. It wouldn’t make any difference—except, perhaps, another
ribbon would fashion itself out of his flesh elsewhere.”

“We need to find him a Kelly physician,” Brandon muttered as
he scanned an adjacent corridor.

We?
Montrose saw the captain’s dark gaze reflecting
the same question.

“No. Down this way.” Brandon veered abruptly, and the others
changed direction. “If they’ve got prisoners, this is where they’d be kept. .
.” He raced ahead.

Montrose slowed to a trot. Vi’ya loped next to him, glancing
toward the Eya’a, who drifted forward at a surprisingly quick pace.

“If he does find any of his family?” the physician asked.

Vi’ya’s lip curled. “Semion vlith-Arkad would come aboard my
ship only as a prisoner.”

“Would?” Montrose asked. “You don’t think we’ll find anyone.
But you let him search?”

“He will lead us back to the ship,” she stated. “I could not
find it on my own.”

Ahead of them the Krysarch slowed abruptly.

“Spooks!” he said. “Ivard, you’re a genius.” He studied the
ceiling as he walked. Then he stopped and slid a painting aside, revealing a
console.

Montrose put out a hand to stay Vi’ya. She avoided his
touch, but stopped. The others bunched up near Brandon as he began tapping at
the console. Greywing drew her brother down the hall as they whispered to each
other. She touched his face, as if checking for fever, and he shrugged her off
in the manner of the young for whom tenderness is a given.

There was a brief flicker of red light as the console
identified the Krysarch.

Montrose said quietly, “You think his family is dead, then?”

“If it is Eusabian of Dol’jhar in possession here, it is the
only possible outcome.”

“Then this one.” Montrose pointed at Brandon, who was still
busy at the console.“Is the titular head of their government. What would that
be worth in ransom—to either side?”

Vi’ya’s lips curved at the corners, then she said something
under her breath. Montrose’s neck prickled when he recognized the harsh
consonants of Dol’jharian, a language he’d heard her speak just once before.

She said, “First we must get off this planet. Then we will
plan.”

o0o

Laughing inwardly at his own fears, Lokri stepped back when
he saw the telltale flicker of a retinal scan on the Krysarch’s face. Brandon
began to work at the console, his profile intent.

Without turning his head, Lokri observed Montrose and Vi’ya
talking. He risked a glance, to find himself gazing straight into Vi’ya’s dark
eyes: neutral speculation. Whatever they were talking about, then, was not him.
He was conscious of disappointment, which amused him.

Brandon stabbed at the console, then grunted softly. “I’ve,
ah, resurrected a little something to keep our Dol’jharian friends off
balance.” He flashed a grin, genuine—and disarming. “We had one as a guest here
once.”

The hostage?

Brandon motioned to Vi’ya and Montrose, and everyone
gathered around.

“I reactivated a worm I built many years ago,” said Brandon.
He smiled ruefully. “The house system seems to have kept a lot of my childhood
toys waiting for me, but this is the only one that seems useful.” He shook his
head, the rueful expression intensifying briefly. “Anyway, from now on you may
see shadows on the walls or vague, quick movements from the corner of your
vision. Don’t let it spook you. It’s designed to keep the Dol’jharians on edge
and distracted.”

He turned to Vi’ya, and hesitated, but then his Douloi
blandness smoothed his countenance. “We still have a ways to go before the old
detention cells,” he said, and started down the hall at a swift pace.

The passageway came to an end at cross-corridor. Brandon
paused, studying the Eya’a. Vi’ya leaned against a wall, her head cocked as if
listening, as Montrose took up guard position.

Something scuttled across the floor at Lokri’s feet, then
melted into the wall. He jumped, then snorted a laugh. A
computer haunting.
He
couldn’t see any trace of the holojac he knew had to be there. Lokri glanced
speculatively at the Krysarch’s back. A worm he’d managed to write into the
Palace system—as a boy?

Vi’ya began moving, slowly at first, then with more
assurance. They passed numerous doors. The faces of long-dead and forgotten men
and women stared at them from faded paintings and holograms on the paneled
walls.

At another junction Vi’ya paused. At first Lokri thought it
was because of the cable running across the floor, threaded through a beveled
cableway, something they’d not seen before. Her brow contracted with what in
anyone else he’d call pain. She bowed her head as the Eya’a pressed close to
her. Then she turned to the crew.

“They are sensing someone radiating very strongly nearby.
Even I can feel it now.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Someone is in
great pain. Resisting something, or withholding.” She pinched the bridge of her
nose between thumb and finger, as if to relieve aching sinuses.

Then her eyes widened as the Eya’a emitted a faint chirp in
unison. “A silver sphere. The mind in torment holds an image of the Heart of
Kronos.”

“Who here would know about the Heart of Kronos?” the
Krysarch murmured.

“The what?” Lokri asked, lounging against the wall.

Vi’ya ignored him, and Brandon gave him a distracted look.
Had the Arkad been bringing some kind of arcane weapon to Markham? Lokri wished
he’d tried a little harder to witness Vi’ya’s interview with the two
Panarchists, back on Dis.

Vi’ya began jogging. “This way.”

When they reached another junction, which also had a cable
running across it, Vi’ya waved them to a stop well short of it. She eased up to
the edge of the cross-corridor, knelt down, and peered around the corner, her
head close to the floor. Then she rejoined them.

She tapped her boswell.
(There’s a Tarkan in front of a
door about thirty meters down the hall.)

(Tarkan?)
asked Ivard.

(Elite guards. Very dangerous.)

She stopped, wincing. They all heard the bubbling shriek.
Lokri’s stomach clenched, Ivard and Greywing both looked sick. Montrose frowned
deeply.

(We’ve got to stop that, no matter who it is,)
said
Brandon. Another scream echoed down the corridor, coming from a ventilation
grille near the ceiling about four meters back down the passageway. Vi’ya
tapped her own boswell and shook her head, frowning, then she motioned Greywing
and Ivard toward the corner. They pulled their weapons and took up station as
guards.

Vi’ya led the way back to the grille, gathering Lokri and
Montrose with a glance. She jerked her chin up at the grille.
(Open the
grille.)

Another howl of agony echoed through the opening as Montrose
swiveled his two-hand firejac around behind his back on its harness and Lokri
put his hands against the wall, bracing himself.

Lokri felt the big physician’s hands on his waist, and with
a soft grunt Montrose lifted him into the air. Lokri walked his hands up the
wall, then pulled at the grille. It came away with a faint clatter that sounded
loud to his ears. Montrose lowered him, and he dropped soundlessly to the
floor. At the junction Ivard clutched his weapon in white fingers, his sister
still and grim.

Vi’ya stepped away for a momentary, silent conference with
the Eya’a. They drifted over to stand below the opening, which was all of three
meters above the floor.

The Krysarch sucked in his breath in apparent surprise as
the Eya’a leapt and vanished into the ventilation duct in two smooth motions,
so fast they were almost a blur. They hadn’t seemed to crouch or otherwise
prepare themselves, as a human gymnast might have—one moment they were in the
corridor, the next they were gone. Lokri shuddered. He still couldn’t get used
to them—they would be easier to take if they were totally alien, like the
Kelly.

Vi’ya motioned the rest of them to join Ivard.
(Get
ready.)

o0o

Guardsman Remmet had passed from horror to a numb
indifference as he counted inwardly when the shrieks stopped. He willed himself
to relax and enjoy the respite. His gaze stayed fixed on the wall before him
until a flicker high on his right caused him to swerve, fingers tight on the
trigger of his jac: nothing there. He knew he’d seen something, though.

Ghosts,
he thought. Had the Panarchist finally died? His
shade, thirsting for vengeance, walking the halls—

Then he started as a new, louder scream ripped through the
door, followed by the crash of equipment falling to the floor.