The Phoenix in Flight (62 page)

“Guard!” he heard Evodh call, the cry changing immediately
to a despairing shriek of horror and rage fully as terrible as anything he’d
heard from the pesz mas’hadni’s victim. Followed by another metallic smash.

Remmet slapped the summoner on his belt, spun about, and
crashed through the door, his weapon ready, then stopped, a shiver of uncanny
fear burning his nerves. Evodh lay on his back on the floor, his hands clenched
into claws drawn up near his cheeks, which were furrowed with bloody stripes
from his fingernails. The guardsman fought with nausea as he saw that the man’s
eyes had exploded. A hideous gray-crimson pudding was seeping from the empty
sockets and his ears and nose. Behind the gurney, where the Panarchist lay
still, his chest barely moving, the assistant lay in similar ruin.

Remmet looked wildly around the room, his skin prickling as
the superstitions of his race welled up from memory: tales of the karra, the
demons who’d destroyed the original paradise of the Pure Blood, and who still
lurked in the shadows, eternally hungry.

Movement near the ceiling. He spun toward the ventilation
grille, raising his firejac toward two pairs of gleaming faceted eyes. He had
just enough time to realize that there were worse things on this world than any
karra before a sun kindled in his brain and a scream ripped his throat open and
carried his life away with it.

o0o

The instant the last scream died away Vi’ya motioned them
around the corner. They raced to the door of a room that stank of blood and
excrement. Brandon fought a tide of nausea when he took in what the Eya’a had
done to the Dol’jharians, then forgot it as he recognized the man strapped to
the gurney.

“Sebastian!” He leapt over the robed body on the floor, then
stopped, unsure what to do next. Omilov’s chest was barely moving. Blood
trickled out of his mouth and from small wounds here and there on his body. A
thin whine emanated from some sort of machine attached to a mesh cap on the
gnostor’s head.

Montrose pushed past him and cast a practiced eye over
Omilov’s body, then at the banks of instruments beyond. “You know this man?” he
rumbled as he placed his ear on Omilov’s chest.

“My oldest friend,” Brandon said as Vi’ya stepped over the
guard’s body.

The Eya’a pushed out the grille and jumped down from the
ventilator duct. The captain joined them, head bent.

Brandon forced his gaze back to Montrose. He couldn’t bear
to look at Omilov. “He’s Osri’s father.”

“This is the man who gave the Heart of Kronos to you?” asked
Vi’ya.

“Yes.”

Montrose picked up a spray-jector off the floor from among a
welter of ugly, glittering instruments and sniffed it.

“He’s had a cardiac stimulant, which should keep him going
for a while yet, but he needs attention as soon as possible.” The physician
motioned to the instruments against the wall, several of which displayed
wavering electronic traces. “There’s something wrong with his heart—was before
this happened.”

“But what’s that thing on his head?” asked Ivard from the
doorway, his thin, blotchy face greenish with nausea.

“I don’t know,” said Montrose, restraining Brandon’s hand as
he reached to take it off.

“This is a pesz mas’hadni.” Vi’ya nudged the robed man with
the toe of her boot. “Trained in the arts of pain. Only Dol’jharian lords have
such.” She looked up at Montrose. “Free him.”

“It’s some kind of torture machine,” Ivard whispered in
horror.

Montrose glowered at the machine, gaze running along the
connections from machine to the cap on Omilov’s head. “I can’t figure it out.”
He shook his head. “We’ll just have to take a chance.” He gently removed the
cap, then threw his huge body across Omilov as the gnostor heaved upward in a
massive convulsion. The spasm passed as suddenly as it had come. Omilov’s
breathing was louder now, a harsh, quivering sound resonant with pain.

Montrose levered himself up off Omilov and turned to Vi’ya.
“If he’s to survive to talk, we’ve got to get him to the ship as soon as
possible.”

Brandon stared at the floor, forcing his heart rate to slow
with Ulanshu breathing. The sense of unreality that had possessed him since
they first saw the
Fist of Dol’jhar
over the Mandala had sharpened into
something akin to shock. The rational part of his mind knew he did not have the
luxury of surrendering to shock.

The Eya’a chattered, and Vi’ya stilled. “Patrol’s coming.
Can’t tell how many, but they’re coming fast.” She turned to Brandon. “How do
we get back to the ship from here?”

Brandon looked about sightlessly. The two directions
impelling him had nothing to do with location, but with need. Purpose. He had
to save Sebastian... but to do so would destroy his chance of searching for his
family.

He passed his hand over his face. If you removed hope, you
were left with facts. He had Omilov. He had no idea if any of his family lived,
and if so, where they were.

He looked up. “If we continue along this corridor the
direction we were going and head down two levels—”

“All right, let’s get going. You can tell us the rest on the
way.” She turned to Montrose. “You may bring the old man if you wish to take
responsibility for him.”

Montrose unstrapped his firejac. Brandon sheathed his own
and took the larger weapon. The big Rifter bent down and ripped the robe off of
the dead Dol’jharian with the lacquered skull, then gently wrapped Omilov in
it. The Dol’jharian’s body was covered with scars and cicatrices. Brandon looked
away.

Montrose carefully picked the gnostor up and slung him over
his shoulder.

Brandon motioned him out, then paused in the doorway. So the
Dol’jharian rulers kept personal torturers? For the second time in an hour he
thought of Anaris and his threats.
Not that we ever believed the hulking
blunge-sucker,
Brandon thought, lifting the heavy two-hand firejac and
thumbing it to wide aperture. It was enough to stay out of reach of that damned
knife of his...

Later.
He held down the trigger, hosing the room with
a thick stream of sun-hot plasma. The machinery exploded into flames and
gobbets of white-hot metal. Brandon let go of the trigger and stumbled
backward, half-blinded, as the ceiling released a shower of foam that hissed
violently and emitted a sharp chemical stench. Then he backed out of the door,
and as it hissed shut behind him, he ran after the others.

o0o

Barrodagh broke his reverie and recovered the present to
find Anderic waiting patiently, gaze averted out of deference.

This Rifter is a quick study. It has taken him very
little time to pick up the appropriate behavior.
In the past half-hour
Barrodagh had learned much about Rifter customs and behavior. In some ways it
was a very familiar world.

One thing is certain: Tallis is not enough of a
counterbalance to Hreem. I will have to maneuver Anderic into his position
somehow.

“Your information is very interesting, Anderic. I will have
to think about what you’ve told me.” He smiled conspiratorially. “For the
moment I’ll have you escorted to Tallis’s room. You may tell him that your
intervention was instrumental in winning his release.”

Anderic grinned back at him. “Yeah, that’ll be a good
start.” He stood up, stretched luxuriously, then started, his eyes flickering
to the wall behind the Bori.

Barrodagh swiveled around. Nothing was there. He turned
back, puzzled, then shoved his chair back in alarm as a vaguely perceived
shadow scuttled out from under his desk and melted into the opposite wall. A
brief shiver of fear ran through him, and he pushed it out of his mind.
Too
many years on Dol’jhar, with all their demons and spirits.
But as he met
Anderic’s wide-eyed stare, he knew the Rifter had also seen whatever it was.

His compad chimed.

“What?”

“Kyltasz Jesserian here. A conscript was found dead a short
time ago in the Ivory antechamber, and a number of artifacts are missing. I’ve
elevated the alert level for all detachments and began a systematic search for
the intruders, as well as their ship, which must have come down much closer to
the Palace than we assumed. “

Barrodagh dismissed the weird shadow.
Looting. So that’s
what they were after.
Eusabian would be furious at this violation of his
new demesne, but if Jesserian could capture the looters—Rifters, no doubt—and
put things right before Barrodagh had to report it, the consequences would be
minimal, for both him and Jesserian. The Dol’jharian noble’s careful omission
of the usual semi-insulting presumed-equal mode of address indicated that he
was fully aware of their shared exposure here.

Before he could reply, the kyltasz continued.

“While I was dealing with that situation, we received an
alarm from the guardsman assigned to senz-lo Evodh. He is not responding to our
queries, nor can we reach the senx-lo or his assistant. I have dispatched a
squad. Based on the estimated time of death for the conscript, it is possible
that the same intruders are responsible.”

For a moment, Barrodagh could not make sense of his words.
His spies had confirmed the impact of the vid of Jomsinn’s dissection. What
Rifter in his right mind would go anywhere near Evodh?

In an instant of horror, the situation clarified into
obviousness. This incursion was aimed squarely at
him!
The looting would
make him look powerless, as well as being immensely profitable, and the killing
of Evodh—no matter that he would be replaced—would be a devastating symbolic
blow that would seriously undermine his control of the Avatar’s Rifter forces.

None of that, however, would matter to Jesserian. Barrodagh
marshaled his thoughts. The kyltasz would have to be managed carefully.

“I have no doubt of your ability to track down the
intruders. I ask only that you keep me closely apprised of any developments.
But the theft of the artifacts touches the Avatar’s Will. That ship must not be
allowed to escape, and the Lord of Vengeance will require an extended expiation
of the offense, so you should make every effort to capture the intruders
alive.”

“Given that none of the transport tunnel alarms were
triggered, the ship must be much closer to the Palace than we assumed,” replied
Jesserian, his face thawing somewhat. “I have concentrated the exterior search
accordingly. Inside the Palace, I am using all available conscript forces to
search, with Tarkan squads held in readiness to respond when the intruders are
located and pinned down.”

The kyltasz’s unusual willingness to explain his methods
eased Barrodagh’s mind.

“Have you any further orders touching the Avatar’s Will?”
Jesserian asked.

“Yes. Be careful not to damage any of the artifacts. They
must be returned to the antechamber unharmed.”

The commander acknowledged and cut the connection. Barrodagh
looked up at Anderic.

“How much of that did you understand?”

“A little,” said the Rifter carefully. “Sounds like some of
the Sodality got a little greedy.” He shuddered theatrically. “After reading up
on Dol’jhar and some of their habits, there isn’t anything that valuable, as
far as I’m concerned.”

Barrodagh nodded. “Perhaps you’d better stay here for the
time being. I can’t spare an escort for you now. You can wait in the outer
office.”

o0o

Ivard jogged next to Greywing, clutching his weapon tightly
to his side. His guts had been churning, sending bubbles up his throat ever
since the Kelly ribbon had wrapped itself around his wrist. What he’d just seen
in that torture room made it worse. There had never been anything like that on
his favorite serial chip,
The lnvisibles.

He didn’t know which was worse, what the Dol’jharians had
been doing to the old man, or what the Eya’a had done to the Dol’jharians.
Memory again: when he’d found out that Greywing had seen them fry someone, he’d
asked, “
What was it like
?” She had used that voice that meant Shut Up
About It when she told him,
“It was disgusting.”

Well, she was right.

His mind was like a ship inside his head, swooping back and
forth between past and present. It swooped out to Greywing, running along
beside him. She was the slow one, now. He could tell her wound was really
hurting her, but he knew she wouldn’t complain. She never did. She just went
quiet and grim.

He wished he hadn’t gotten angry at her back there, after
she’d called him a vacuumskull right in front of Lokri and the others, just for
saying he hoped to get a shot at some of these Dol’jharian blunge-suckers. Not
that it wasn’t time for her to stop acting like he was a baby, now that he was
a full crew member.

They entered a large chamber where six corridors converged,
with the usual latched-open fire door just back from each adit. Ivard shied as
a shadowy something swung past his head. Spooks weren’t fun when they really
happened, even if they were made by a computer. He couldn’t help the yellow
lightning-forks of pain that the shadows caused—they were too much like dreams
he used to have. Still had.

Scattered about them were large crates and some loading
machinery, their placement suggesting hasty abandonment. There was a large
rusty stain on the floor.

“We’re almost there!” the Krysarch said. He pointed down one
of the corridors. “A couple of minutes down that way is the flight of stairs
that leads back to the closet.”

Montrose adjusted his grip on the old man. The gnostor’s
eyes were half-open, but he was entirely limp and unresponsive. A thread of
reddish spittle hung from his lips, and with his shaved head it made him look like
an aged infant.

Ivard looked away, his skin crawling down his back and along
his arms. He no longer wanted to play with the jacs, like in a chip. He wanted
to get away from these mind-twisted Dol’jharians as fast as they could. And get
this chatzing Kelly thing off his wrist.