Read The Price of the Stars: Book One of Mageworlds Online

Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald

The Price of the Stars: Book One of Mageworlds (2 page)

BOOK: The Price of the Stars: Book One of Mageworlds
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“So that’s what the bartender meant. Mother is dead—and I’m the Domina now.”
Errec Ransome’s dark eyes were somber. “Yes, my lady.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically—the reflex of years. Inside her head, the old, old argument played on:
Mother is “my lady,” not me … I’m going to be a starpilot, one of the best, not just some kind of political figurehead … and someday I’m going to run so far away from Galcen that nobody will care who I am.
Under the cover of the tabletop, her fists clenched so tightly that the nails, even trimmed short for handling a starship’s controls, bit deep into her palm. She hadn’t cried in public since she was twelve, and she was damned if she was going to start now. She pressed her lips together until they stopped trembling, and then turned to her father.
“When—how—did it happen?”
More silence. “Tell her, Errec,” her father said.
After another long pause, the Master of the Adepts’ Guild began to speak. “There was a debate in the Grand Council,” he said. “Hearings, on the expulsion of Suivi Point. The Domina … your mother … was against expulsion.”
Beka nodded. Suivi Point had been a blot on the Republic’s honor for longer than she’d been alive; this wasn’t the first time the wide-open asteroid spaceport had come near expulsion from the community of worlds. She remembered a family dinner, long ago on Galcen, and her mother saying to somebody—had it been Councillor Tarveet of Pleyver?—“Suivi’s a disgrace, I’ll grant you that. But if the Suivans leave the Republic, there’ll be no way left to control them short of open warfare. And gentlesir, I’ve seen enough of war.”
Tarveet. It
was
Tarveet, and that was the night I put a garden slug into his salad. Mother spanked me for it—but I heard her laughing about it later. She didn’t really like Tarveet any more than I did … .
Her eyes stung; she blinked once, hard, and kept her eyes on Master Ransome.
“The Visitors’ Gallery was crowded that day. It always was, whenever your mother spoke.” Master Ransome smiled briefly. “Even your father was there.”
Which meant, Beka knew, that the debate would have been more than usually important—her father had no use for politics, as a rule. “It makes no difference to me what they decide,” she’d heard him say once. “All it ever means is more work for the Space Force.” Then he’d laughed, and smiled at her mother. “You shouldn’t make so many speeches. It only encourages them.”
She didn’t dare look at her father now. Watching Master Ransome’s face was bad enough. It made her wonder if the old portside story was true—that when Domina Perada Rosselin of Entibor came to Waycross in search of a new commander for the Republic’s shattered spacefleet, she’d taken away the hearts of
Warhammer’
s captain and copilot both.
“Somehow,” said Master Ransome, “the force field in the Visitor’s Gallery went down. And there was an assassin. With a blaster. He got off one shot. Your father shot him before he could fire again.”
Beka swallowed, and wet her lips. When she spoke, her voice sounded old and rusty. “That was how it happened?”
“Not quite,” said the Adept. “Unlike your father, the assassin missed his target. All his shot hit was the floor of the Council Hall. But one of the flying shards of marble from the floor struck your mother. It was just a scratch, barely enough to justify visiting the Council’s medics. But she went … and somebody had given them Clyndagyt instead of their usual variety of antiseptic spray.”
“I don’t understand,” Beka said. “There’s nothing wrong with Clyndagyt. It’s what we’ve got on
Claw Hard.”
Her father spoke again, for the first time in what felt to Beka like hours. “Clyndagyt works just fine, as long as nothing’s managed to sensitize you to it. And that’s hard to do—about the only way to get sensitized was in one of the Mageworlders’ biochemical attacks. But almost everybody who was at the Siege of Entibor lived through a couple of those—and your mother wouldn’t leave until the Magelords had just about wiped the whole planet slick. She had some kind of damn-fool notion about staying there and making them kill her in person.”
Beka bit her lip. “She never told me that.”
“It makes a lousy bedtime story,” said her father. “And anyway, I talked her out of it. Now let’s get down to business.”
So it comes around to family politics, after all,
Beka thought. She clenched her fists again under the table.
“No,” she said. “I’ll say to you what I said to Mother seven years ago. I don’t give a damn about duty and family and all that. I’m not going back to Galcen and letting myself get made over into the next Domina of Lost Entibor.”
Her father shook his head. “As it happens, I didn’t have anything of the sort in mind.”
“Then what—?”
“You say that
Claw Hard
’s a pile of junk and Osa’s a bastard. How would you like to be captain of
Warhammer
instead?”
She caught her breath. “Me? Pilot
Warhammer
?” For a moment, in spite of all that she’d just heard, the prospect dazzled her like walking out of a cave into the sunlight. Then she shook her head. “I don’t have the kind of money a ship like the ‘
Hammer
would cost. And I’m not taking any family favors.”
“Don’t worry,” said her father. “I’m not in the business of doing favors, family or otherwise. And I’m not asking anything you can’t afford.”
“There’s more than one way of looking at that,” said Master Ransome quietly. “And I don’t particularly approve of what you’re doing.”
“Then stay out of it,” said her father. “I don’t approve of everything the Guild does, either—but I don’t interfere in things that aren’t my business.”
He turned back to Beka. “Are you interested?”
“In getting
Warhammer
? Of course I’m interested.” She looked about the common room—cramped, grey, and utilitarian—and thought about all the things that had made this ship a legend during the Magewar. The heavy dorsal and ventral energy guns. The cargo holds that had once held the captured treasures of the Mageworlds trade. The speed no ship of her class had ever equaled.
I could stick to small cargo
, Beka thought,
pricey stuff, and run it fast. With those guns, even flying solo I wouldn’t get in too much trouble. I could outshoot anything I couldn’t outrun.
She bit her lip—that was fantasy, and she knew it—and met her father’s gaze directly. “Ships like the
‘Hammer
don’t come cheap. And I haven’t exactly struck it rich out here.”
“I don’t want money,” General Metadi said. “I want to know who planned your mother’s murder.”
“Planned?”
“What do you think, girl?” he demanded harshly. “A lunatic with a blaster could happen any time, and a shorted-out force field could be bad luck, and the wrong antiseptic could be delivered to the Council medics by accident—but not all three at once. Somebody wanted your mother out of the way, and wanted it badly. Hired blasters cost money, but getting that Clyndagyt past Security must have cost even more.”
“You’re talking about somebody very, very rich,” she said quietly. “And very, very powerful. And I’m very, very sorry, but I gave up running around with people like that seven years ago. Much as I’d like to help you stake out our unknown friend for a cliffdragon’s breakfast, and much as I’d like to have the ‘
Hammer
to call my own-no.”
“We’re talking about somebody who either comes from Suivi Point or has connections there,” her father continued. “And that, my girl, is exactly the sort of person you’ve been running around with for the past few years. Do you deny it?”
She shook her head, the brief flare of resentment gone. “No. But if all you want from me is inquiries out on the fringes of the law, you don’t have to buy them with
Warhammer.
I’ll do it for free.”
“That’s no good,” he said. “You’ll never be able to follow up anything if you have to go where Osa and
Claw Hard
drag you. You take
Warhammer;
and I get the names, when you find them.”
She looked about the ‘
Hammer’
s shadowed common room. “A ship like this—for nothing more than a couple of names? I can’t take her, Dadda; it’s not enough.”
“She’s my ship,” said General Metadi, “and I say what she’s worth. The names will do.”
For a long time, Beka sat without answering, listening to the whisper of forced air through
Warhammer
’s vents, and to the soft in-and-out of her own breath. The two sounds mingled in her ears, like the breathing of a single creature.
A ship of my own
, she thought.
I used to say I’d give anything to have one. So now I get to prove it.
“All right, Dadda. You have a deal.” She squared her shoulders, and extended her hand across the mess table to seal the bargain free-spacer’s fashion. “Your names—my ship. Done?”
Her father met the grip with his own. “Done.”
 
A
T WELL past local midnight in Embrig Spaceport—port of call for the wealthy provincial world of Mandeyn—the Freddisgatt Allee ran almost deserted from the Port Authority offices to the Strip. The warehouses lining the Allee blocked most of the sky-glow from the lighted docking areas beyond, and Mandeyn’s high-riding moon shed its pale illumination only in the center of the broad Allee.
Beka Rosselin-Metadi whistled an off-key tune through her front teeth as she took a leisurely return walk down the Allee to her ship. The black wool cloak she wore against the cold of Embrig’s winter night swirled around her booted ankles, and if she’d put a bit of extra swagger into her stride as she left the Painted Lily Lounge—well, she figured she was entitled.
Damn right you’re entitled, my girl,
she told herself.
You made a tidy profit on carrying those parts for Interworld Data, and you’ve got another good cargo already on board for Artat—not bad work for a twelve-hour layover with time out for dinner with an old shipmate.
The
Sidh
had been her first ship after leaving home, and she’d been junior to everyone on board, including Ignaceu LeSoit. The knowledge that beSoit and his friend Eterynic were crewing now on the luckless
Reforger—
still in Embrig after three days, Standard, without finding a cargo—hadn’t spoiled her evening in the least. Now that Beka was captain of her own ship, she lined up cargoes two ports ahead; if she could, so could anybody.
Maybe I should think about hiring a crew of my own,
she thought.
Copilot, say, or an engineer who knows a bit of gunnery. A gunner, that’s the ticket; then I could push my routes out further into the fringes, and get a bit closer to what I’m really after—
Something hit her behind her right knee, hard. The leg collapsed beneath her, and she fell onto her back in the street.
“What the—” she began, and swallowed the rest of it when a blaster bolt ripped through the air where her head had been.
A second blaster answered, firing from a point above and beside her. She rolled toward the nearest wall, where her black cloak stood a chance at blending into the shadows, and grabbed for her own sidearm. Her hand came up empty.
She pressed herself flat against the metal siding of the warehouse.
I’m a shadow
, she thought.
Just a shadow that moved across the picture for a moment
. The trick had always worked for her brother Owen when they were both young; maybe it’d work for her if she tried hard enough.
Out in the street where she’d been walking a stranger stood, a blaster in each hand. He fired once toward the rooftop opposite; Beka heard the clatter of a dropped weapon and the heavy thud of a falling body. A left-handed shot down the intersecting alley brought a scream followed by silence.
As the outcry died, she heard a faint ratchety noise from farther along the road, a clear, distinct sound in the frigid air. The stranger heard it, too: he whirled and fired both blasters down the Allee. The man who had stepped from the shadows holding an energy lance flew backward and lay still.
The stranger turned to where Beka was lying and gestured at her to come out.
Beka unpeeled herself from the wall. Her knee hurt, and she’d dragged her cloak through the slush when she rolled clear. The wet wool slapped against her legs as she limped out into the light and said, “Who the hell are you?”
“A friend,” said the stranger. He holstered one of the blasters, and held her own weapon out toward her.
She looked at the grey-haired gentleman, dressed for the weather in a long winter topcoat with silver buttons. Without the hardware—and if she hadn’t seen him use it—she’d have figured him for a teacher of languages and deportment at a young ladies’ finishing school.
She took back the blaster, checked the charge and the safety, and put it away. “Friend, huh?” she said when she’d finished. “I suppose those other guys weren’t?”
“Not if your name’s Rosselin-Metadi. Can you walk?”
“If it’s back to my ship and out of here, yes. I’ve got a lift-off at zero-four-hundred local, and I’m not in the mood for long explanations.”
“Then here’s a short one,” said the grey-haired gentleman. “The odds in town are running twelve to one against you making it that far.”
“Short and sweet,” said Beka. “Almost enough to make me bet against myself. What’s your angle, Professor?”
The gentleman gave a dry chuckle. “I’m playing the long shot,” he said. “I believe the Allee is clear of amateur talent for the moment—my suggestion is that you make what haste you can to your ship and wait for me there.”
“And then what?”
“And then I’ll tell you some things you ought to know.”
The gentleman gave Beka a polite half-bow, stepped sideways into the shadows, and vanished.
The Adepts do it better
, Beka told herself. Then she looked back down the Allee, empty except for her and the dead.
But not by much.
She made it home to
Warhammer
without any more trouble. As always, her spirits lifted at the sight of the familiar bulk of her ship, looming in silhouette against the white glare of the dock lights.
My ship. Damn, but that sounds good.
In spite of the pain in her knee, Beka grinned as she gave the ‘
Hammer
a prelift walkaround.
“My lady?” came a cultured voice from the entrance of the docking bay. “Permission to come aboard?”
She jumped, thought about going for her blaster, and decided the hell with it.
If he’d wanted to kill me
,
I’d be dead by now anyway.
“Permission granted, Professor,” she said. “And let’s make that ‘Captain,’ if you don’t mind.”
“My apologies, Captain.”
the grey-haired gentleman came forward out of the shadowed entryway as she toggled off the force field at the ‘
Hammer’
s ramp. The readouts on the security panel by the side of the main hatch showed clear, so she went on through and gestured for him to follow.
“welcome aboard
Warhammer,
” she said.
She brought the force field up again behind her visitor. After a second’s thought, she closed and sealed the hatch as well. She’d finished all the paperwork with the port and with her cargo before leaving the docks at the start of the evening, and anybody wanting in now wasn’t likely to be friendly.
Beka led the way to the ‘
Hammer
’s common room. “Wait here while I check things out for lift-off,” she said, dropping her wet cloak onto the deck beside the mess table. “Then I’ll have a few minutes clear for talk.”
She waited to see the stranger settled into one of the padded seats, then pulled a clipboard out of its bulkhead niche and started working her way down the prelift checklist. First stop, the main hold: crates of fresh Mandeynan
crallach
meat, destined for the gourmet trade on nearby Artat, all on board and secure for lift-off. Then—limping from one station to another—she did the operational checks on all the systems and backups, from the realspace engines to the cockpit controls.
Checkout complete, she flipped on the cockpit comm system. “Port Control, this is Free Trader
Warhammer
. Request permission to lift on time.”
“Free Trader
Warhammer,
this is Port Control. Scheduled lift time your vessel zero-four-one-four, I say again zero-four-one-four.”
She signed off, and switched the countdown timer to show minus minutes in real-time running. She had about half an hour, Standard, before lift—not really enough time to tend to her leg, if she wanted to give her visitor’s tale the attention it deserved.
She took care of the leg anyway in the privacy of her cabin, stripping off her boots and trousers and examining the damage. The knee was swollen, with a nasty red welt on the upper part of the calf in back. By morning she’d have a spreading purple bruise.
Son of a bitch must have used the edge of his boot,
she thought.
Well, tape it up, my girl, and get on in there. You can’t put off hearing him out much longer.
In a clean coverall and soft shoes, with a sprain-tape bandage around the injured knee, she returned to the common room, detouring by way of the galley nook to pour two mugs of cha’a from the hotpot.
“Now then,” she said, setting the mugs down on the mess table. “I believe you promised me an explanation.”
“Ah, yes.” The gentleman took a mug of cha’a and leaned back against the padded seat. “If you decide to trust me,” he said, sipping the hot drink, “I can get you out from under the death mark you’ve had on your head for three systems now.”
Assassins
, she thought, and felt a sudden chill.
Face it, they’ve got you outclassed—and you can’t stay in space forever
. “Out from under for how long?”
“Permanently.”
She thought about it a moment. “Manage that,” she said, “and I’ll owe you a big one. What would I have to do?”
“It’s quite simple, really. Lift off from here on time, and hit your next port as scheduled, after making a layover of six hours Standard and taking in tow a second vessel of the ‘
Hammer’
s mass.”
Simple. Right. And I’m a Magelord.
She sipped at her cha’a, wishing it were cool enough to gulp down and have done with it. “Layover where?”
The grey-haired gentleman reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a slip of paper. “You’ll find the coordinates here.”
She took the paper and gave it a quick glance, then bit her lip for a moment while she did rough calculations in her head. “I’ll need to check the navicomps for this, Professor. You’re asking me to take a hell of a risk on trust.”
Her visitor sighed. “For what it’s worth under the circumstances, you have my word that I mean you no harm.”
She looked at him for a moment, wishing she had her brother Owen’s ability to see what moved behind a stranger’s eyes.
“I’ll believe you,” she said. “For now, anyway. Call it taking care of the one I owe you from back on the Freddisgatt.”
She stood up, grimacing at the pain in her bruised leg. “Stow the mugs in the galley and strap yourself in for lift-off. By the time the navicomps spit out an answer on this one, I’ll have to be sealed for launch and powered up.”
The lift-off clock read three minutes and counting before she called back to the common room on the internal communicator. “All right, Professor, you’ve got your layover. But as soon as we’re in hyperspace I want the whole story.”
It had better be good,
she thought, getting ready to raise Port Control on the external comm system,
to make it worth putting the
‘Hammer
through something as chancy as this is going to be.
She scowled at the ‘
Hammer
’s main control board. That damned detour was going to mean blasting at 160 percent of rated max power the whole way out. Not to mention some pretty tight maneuvering to make it look good from out front.
Blow this one, my girl
, she told herself,
and you could wind up doing a real good meteor imitation.
But with an expert at the controls, the ‘
Hammer
could handle it—thanks to the foresight of her previous owner. Long ago, at the start of his privateering days, Jos Metadi had put the profit from
Warhammer
’s first hunting foray into new, outsized engines for his ship—engines half again the standard size for a vessel of the ’
Hammer
’s class. They cut into her scant cargo space; they made her cranky to handle, fuel-hungry, and a bitch to repair; but combined with the guns, they turned a harmless-looking merchant ship into a deep-space predator, and let her run flat out with a full hold at speeds even racing craft had trouble matching.
And—for the times when that still wasn’t enough—the flip of an extra switch on the control panel would take all the safety circuits off line, and the autopilot right along with them. “Then everything depends on you,” her father had told her years ago. “Either you guess right about how much she can take, or you go up like a supernova.”
Beka swore under her breath as she reached for the external comm.
Just because you never could resist a dare
… She keyed the handset on the comm panel. “Port Control, this is
Warhammer
. Switching to Inspace frequency. Over.”
“This is Port Control. Roger, switch, out.”
BOOK: The Price of the Stars: Book One of Mageworlds
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