Treasure of Light (The Light Trilogy) (14 page)

“Good, Chris. As the cleaning crews complete their work on each secured level, start assigning refugees to rooms. I’m sure they’re going mad waiting in the bays. Avel, have you had time to arrange mess crews to deliver meals?”

“Not yet. Sorry.”

“No apology necessary. The dispensers in the rooms will give the refugees soup and drinks. Just tell them we’re working on full meals, Chris.”

Janowitz nodded. “I will.”

Harper cleared his throat and hesitated. Jeremiel turned abruptly, sensing something unpleasant. “What?”

“The search teams you assigned to look for Dannon have found nothing. I provided all of them with pictures, but—”

“Keep them looking.” He silently promised himself that when he had the majority of the critical problems out of the way, he’d go looking
himself.

Harper licked his lips and nodded. “We also picked up a tran from Oraias. It was sent right after he left Horeb. He got away safely. He’s on his way to Palaia Station to pick up his reward.”

Silently, Jeremiel stared into Harper’s black eyes, sharing a conspiratorial look of anger and a promise of revenge.

“Well, blessed be Milcom,” Howard said, “at least the High Councilman got away.”

Rage tensed Harper’s face. He turned like a bear about to attack. “I’ll let that pass, Howard, since you don’t know Ornias is the cause of all this.”

The skinny man blinked. “What? The blessed Mashiah’s right-hand man—”

“The High Councilman laid a trap for Jeremiel, seducing him away from his forces by sending a false message that the very survival of Gamant civilization depended on his coming to Horeb. The entire civil war was nothing more than a ruse to capture Baruch. Jeremiel came, all right, and Ornias turned him over to Tahn for five billion notes.”

Howard frowned incredulously. At his side, Kaufa blinked and shifted uneasily; in the stark light of the hallway, his cheeks reddened to crimson. Jeremiel scrutinized him. Did he agree with Howard, or was that just nerves?

Howard threw out his chest indignantly. “The High Councilman sold out Gamant civilization? Why, I can’t believe it! He had the purest of souls. He did everything in the world to help us on Horeb. He fed the people after the drought and—”

“He killed thousands of Old Believers!”

“Well… yes,” Howard acknowledged as though it had little import. “They revolted against Milcom’s Mashiah, tried to kill him by blowing up his temple with him in it!”

Jeremiel leaned against the wall. Not a marine, but certainly an Ornias devotee. He’d have to revise his questionnaire. How many others had they missed? “Harper, when’s Rachel coming aboard?”

“About two hours.”

“Contact Calas and Funk and have them bring Sybil—”

Howard sucked in a sudden breath. “Rachel Eloel? The Mashiah’s
murderer?”

Jeremiel lifted his chin at the indignant look Howard gave him. Every ache, every pain in his deathly tired body cried out.

“Chris,” he ordered. “I’m supposed to meet First Lieutenant Halloway in one hour. Why don’t you and Kaufa go up and spend some time checking the security arrangement on level eight. When Halloway steps out of the tube, inform her I want to alter our meeting place. Tell her I’ll meet her here, in my cabin at 07:30. If she can’t make it—cancel the meeting. I’ll reschedule later.”

“Aye, Jeremiel.” Janowitz and Kaufa stalked away down the hall, Kaufa throwing harsh questioning looks over his shoulder.

“Howard,” Jeremiel ordered sternly. “Please go and check in with the deck twenty security chief. I want to know how many more people have come aboard in the past four hours.”

“Aye, sir,” Howard saluted lazily and stalked down the hall.

Jeremiel’s hand unconsciously gripped the butt of his pistol. “Avel—”

“I didn’t know, Jeremiel. We’ve been trying to weed them out, but things are so confused sometimes—”

“We’re all rushed. Pull Howard off security duty. I don’t want you to use him at all. Not even for a cleaning team. As quickly as possible, assign Howard and any of his obvious friends to the same level where you’re putting all the Tartarus fanatics. I want them sealed in their cabins—just like the others.”

“Understood.” Harper shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “Get some rest, Jeremiel.”

“When I can.”

Harper nodded and walked quietly down the hall, steps easy so as not to jar the sleeping boy in his arms.

Jeremiel closed his door. Sourness roiled in his stomach. He felt like a soldier lost in the midst of a firefight, running in a nightmare country, his path lit only by flashes from enemy rifles that might bring him down for good.

“You’re just tired. Goddamn it. That’s all it is. Let it go.”

But he couldn’t. He had an overwhelming urge to grab a shuttle and space for nowhere—anywhere away from Gamant civilization. Insanity. He’d spent his entire adult life trying to protect Gamant culture and religion from being destroyed by the Magistrates. Why did doubts consume him now, after they’d just achieved a major victory by capturing the
Hoyeft
That look on Howard’s face had stirred it. He’d have to put Rachel somewhere relatively safe or the refugees still loyal to Tartarus and Ornias would tear her to pieces.

“Why are Gamants always trying to cut each other’s throats? Especially now, when each other is all we have left in the galaxy?”

How many had died in the past ten years? Maybe two million? So damned much death. Magisterial cruisers, even now, probably hovered over a Gamant planet, blasting it to scattered bits of nothingness. And his Underground,
God willing,
circled dozens of Magisterial military installations, blasting them to dust. Horeb had been the worst—with Gamants gleefully killing Gamants. Damned fools.
All of them!
Because of the endless petty juggling of political priorities, less than a million Gamants now inhabited the galaxy. In the past year, the Magistrates had scorched four planets: Wexlen, Jumes, Pitbon, and Kayan, and completed half-measures at Horeb and Nuja. And it was escalating, he could
sense
it in the fact that he couldn’t find his fleet or contact his bases on Tikkun.

Am I ready for another series of insane battles?

He stood stiffly until he could suppress the desperation. “Torture yourself later. There’s too much to be done.”

He went back to slouch into the chair before his com terminal. “Computer?”

“Running.”

“Access personnel file of Lieutenant Carey Halloway again. This time, I want the personal data. Family, friends, hobbies, likes, and dislikes. Full psych profile.” With Tahn still down from the concussion he’d given him, she’d be the force to reckon with. What scrap of data could he find to use against her? The Clandestine forces? She’d skillfully managed to isolate them on level two. How long could she keep them there?
Should he let her?

“Searching.”

A full-length picture of her appeared on the screen. A beautiful woman, the picture showed her with shorter hair than he remembered from the landing bay. Her soft translucent skin stood in stark contrast to the hard eyes that looked out at him. Age: 35. Born: Columbia VIII, the 9th of Sivan, 5381. Parents: Lorne and Miza Halloway. Fruit orchard laborers. Siblings: One. Brother Timothy Sean Halloway. Family killed during Centauri Revolt, 5398.

The record continued to scroll up, forty-two screens worth. He didn’t have time for it. He had to get everything he could on the key players and quickly, before the enemy resolved their own inner conflicts and combined forces again to take their ship back.

And they would—the instant Tahn could sit up.

“Computer? Stop. Give me a split screen. Correlate files of Captain Cole Tahn and Lieutenant Halloway. Highlight comparisons and contrasts in psych profiles, particularly stress test results.”

The screen filled with data.

He leaned back in his chair and caressed his beard, trying to concentrate past the deepening fear. Halloway would be just as bad as Tahn. Maybe she’d been one of the driving forces behind him all along. Looked like it. It paid to give that some thought. How would Tahn do without her? But, no. He couldn’t afford to do that—the stakes were too high. He
knew
how they worked together. They’d be unpredictable if separated.

He wearily massaged his forehead before reaching for another syringe full of stimulants. The drug tingled through him, giving him a momentary flush of vitality—but it didn’t last very long anymore. Closing his eyes for a moment, he sighed, then turned back to the split screen, hoping he could get their probable strategies worked out before they did.

He’d damn well better.

Brent Bogomil tugged at the tight collar of his purple uniform. His hand came back coated with sweat.
Slothen had demanded he
immediately
reroute to Palaia?
Lord, it wasn’t his fault Silbersay had managed to slip through his fingers when they’d made that routine maintenance stop at Ourano II. But who’d believe that?

He shifted uncomfortably in his command chair and looked around the bridge of the
Jataka.
In an oval room composed of two levels, nine people worked the monitors and consoles. His chair with its massive net of computer links sat on the upper level overlooking the lower where eight officers sat in twos, stationed side by side at four niches around the oval.

How in hell could they look so bored, when he felt like the world might be coming to an end at any moment? Actually, not any
moment,
it would take them days to reach Palaia.

He ran a hand through his moist red hair. Blast, he needed to talk to someone about what Slothen might do. Who could he call on such a confidential matter? He had to think of someone who despised Slothen as much as he did. His thoughts drifted.

After a few minutes, he leaned forward, looking at his dark-haired communications officer. “Winnow? Put in a tran to the
Hoyer.
I want to talk to Cole Tahn.”

“Aye, sir.” The com aura glowed like a golden halo around her head as her nimble fingers flew.

He waited, leaning back in his chair. Slothen wouldn’t order him to be corrected, would he? Sweat popped out over his face, running in rivulets down his neck. He lost himself for a moment in practicing how he’d explain his blunder to the Magistrate, but after several seconds he came back, grimacing.

“What’s taking so long, Winnow? The
Hoyer’s
just on the other side of—”

“Yes, sir. I know their whereabouts, but I can’t seem to get a response to my trans. I’ve tried three times now. Let me try again.”

He frowned at the forward screen. At their speed, the stars looked like blue-violet tubes streaking an ebony sea.

“Negative, Captain. No response from
Hoyer.”
She swiveled around in her chair, curious eyes meeting his. “Could be a routine malfunction of the long-range link, sir.”

“Could be.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. On the other hand, Tahn had just gone to retrieve the famed Jeremiel Baruch. He ground his teeth softly. Could the Underground fleet have intervened? No. He’d have been notified of their proximity. And Baruch damned sure couldn’t take the
Hoyer
out from under Tahn by himself. It probably was the long-range link.

Then again, it never paid to underestimate Baruch.

“Dharon?” he called to his navigation officer. “Calculate how late we’ll be if we backtrack and swing by the
Hoyer?
Just to make sure everything’s all right there.”

“Aye, sir, but let’s not forget that Slothen’s orders said
immediately.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but if Tahn’s in trouble, it’ll be worth a tongue-lashing from Slothen to help him. He’s pulled us out of enough fires.”

His gaze darted nervously over the bridge. Maybe he ought to tran Palaia and find out if Cole had checked in after retrieving Baruch? But if he did that, Slothen would suspect a delaying tactic on his part and that wouldn’t help his case any. Plus, the blue beast would probably be difficult and deny permission for the course change.

“We’ll be approximately thirty hours overdue to Palaia if we reroute, sir,” Dharon reported.

“Thirty?” Too long. Slothen would hit the roof if he didn’t request authorization first. “All right. Winnow, send a dattran to Slothen’s secretary, what’s his name? Topew? Tell him we suspect a problem aboard the
Hoyer
and want to offer assistance as originally planned. Request permission to delay our arrival at Palaia for another two days.”

“Aye, sir.”

He rubbed his chin pensively, gazing out at the dark, star-streaked skies. “Dharon, while Winnow’s checking with Palaia, see if you can contact the
Scipio.
The last I heard, Gen Abruzzi was delivering med supplies in Sector Two. If we can’t help Cole, maybe he can.”

CHAPTER 11

Carey Halloway absently watched the level numbers flash as the transport tube descended. Her knees trembled.

“Goddamn it.”

Pressing her hot cheek against the cool white tiles, she fought the overwhelming urge to vomit. “Pull yourself together. You can’t let Baruch see you like this.”