Treasure of Light (The Light Trilogy) (27 page)

Merle’s soft voice penetrated his emotional haze. “I love him, too, Rudy. But let’s take a good
professional
look at the data. First, Jeremiel probably
is
in Tahn’s hands. And if he is, he has two options, to fight or to commit suicide. You know as well as I do that the chances of him allowing himself to be probed are minimal. He’d reveal too much critical information about Underground operations. Second, we’re on the verge of doing something that may well endanger the entire Underground movement. If we leave half our fleet here to complete rescue operations around Abulafia and Ahiqar, we’ll deplete our firepower dangerously. And we may need every erg we’ve got in the next month.
Because .
..” She let the word hang dreadfully. “From the bits of information we’ve pieced together the Magistrates have already initiated a genocide program on Tikkun. What do you—”

“We don’t
know
that!” he snapped hostilely. “All we have is some fragments of trans that have used words like ‘sterilization’ and ‘relocation.’ We can’t be certain—”

“Don’t be an
idiot!”
she shouted, lurching unsteadily to her feet. Her dark eyes blazed. “Do you want to take the chance?
Do you?
Tikkun is the most heavily populated Gamant planet left in the galaxy. There are a quarter million of our people there!”

“Merle, we can’t split the fleet! It’s too risky, damn it! And we can’t just abandon—”

“What happens, Kopal, if the Magistrates initiate a massive sterilization program on Tikkun?
What happens to Gamant civilization
if twenty-five percent of its people are incapable of fertilization?” In a violent gesture, she clenched both her fists. “If they succeed, Rudy, Tikkun will only be the beginning.”

“Don’t be a doomsayer.”

“Prophet maybe, doomsayer, never. I just believe the Magistrates. When they vowed to end
all
Gamant problems, I think they meant it.”

“You’ve got faith in Slothen? The next thing I know you’ll be revering him as a zaddik just like the rest of the galaxy.”

She jerked his sleeve hard, forcing him to turn and look down at her. “When has he ever broken a promise, Rudy? When he said he’d put an end to Gamant raiding, we lost the planet Jumes. When he said Gamant agitators would be stopped, Pitbon and Kayan died.
He keeps his promises.”

Rudy dropped his arms to hang slackly at his sides and walked to the edge of the dome, staring out into the cold blackness of space. The dusty glow of hundreds of galaxies tarnished the sable background. In the distance, he made out the bare smudge of pewter marking the Orion arm of the Milky Way. His people had run a long, long way to escape persecution, but it seemed to follow them wherever they went. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement—like a darkness slipping along the far wall. He turned to stare quizzically at it.

“And maybe,” Merle pressed, “just maybe, Jeremiel owns the
Hoyer
by now.”

He shook his head, looking back at her taut face. “Operation Abba was insane. I never thought it would work.”

“You always said you did.”

“I lied.”

She eyed him consideringly. “But it might have.”

“It might, if he’d had
you
and
me
to help him.”

“Maybe he found somebody just as good.”

The shadow seemed to have frozen in place. He frowned at it, wondering what object in the room cast that curious animallike shape. “It’s possible. But if that’s the case, why hasn’t he tranned us? And even if through some miracle, he’s in control of the
Hoyer
and he’s got a com malfunction, he’s going to have one hell of time keeping the cruiser. Tahn is nobody’s fool. He’ll know every thread to pull to make the whole damn thing fall apart around Jeremiel’s ears.”

“We don’t have a choice, Rudy. Jeremiel’s life is a second priority.” Her voice quavered. “Retrieving survivors here and protecting Tikkun have got to be our primary concerns.”

Their gazes locked and they shared their silent desperation. In the far reaches of Rudy’s mind, he thought he heard a bare whisper—soothing, pointing him in a certain direction. “No. We can’t split the fleet.”

“Name of God, Kopal!” Merle threw up her hands. “What do I have to say to get it through your thick skull that we’ve got no …”

She kept talking, but Rudy’s mind closed in upon itself. The voice in his head grew stronger, prompting in wordless ways. It became so strong that he shook his head to try and rid himself of it. “Merle. Merle … stop. I’ve changed my mind. You’re right. Lord, I can barely stand the thought, but contact Martin Qaf.”

“Does that mean I can set course for Tikkun?”

He shifted uneasily, vying with himself, not quite able to utter the word that might well condemn Jeremiel to a fate worse than death. At last, he forced himself to nod.

Merle exhaled a relieved breath and slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him close in a friendly hug. “I know it’s hard. But if Jeremiel were here, that’s what he’d order us to do.”

Rudy tightened his grip around her, gazing at the dark shadow that clung unmoving in the corner. It gave him an eerie feeling—as though it watched him. “When you reach Martin, tell him he’s in charge of the Abulafia operation. Inform him we’re on our way to Tikkun, which means he’ll have only seven cruisers at his back here.”

“I will.”

“He’s going to have to make the evacuation of refugees damned fast—if he wants to get out of here alive.”

Merle nodded solemnly. “I’ll remind him—though I doubt he needs it.”

Abruzzi ran a hand through his woolly gray hair and pounded a mahogany fist into the back of Tenon Lamont’s chair. She looked up at him through dark eyes. Her pretty Oriental face had gone hard, unpleasant. Around them, the bridge hummed with quiet dismay, officers shaking their heads.

“This is ridiculous, Captain,” Tenon whispered angrily. “Tahn obviously needs help!”

“I’m well aware of that.” Abruzzi glared at the Clandestine One message that filled the forward screen:

Greetings, Captain Abruzzi.

Take no action to intercept or interfere with the
Hoyer.
Continue monitoring and keep us informed. We have recently initiated an action against the Underground fleet and can afford no complications at this time.

Please await further instructions.

Magistrate Slothen

Tenon swiveled around and leveled a fiery look at Abruzzi. “We can’t just sit here when we know the
Hoyer
is in trouble.”

Abruzzi propped his fists on his hips. “Those are our orders. I’m afraid we haven’t any choice.”

“Blast it, Gen! We told Slothen about the half-finished scorch attack and the shuttles filled with Gamant refugees. What possible complications could we cause if we rescue Tahn!”

“Slothen knows more about the galactic situation than we do, Lieutenant. Maybe he’s afraid Baruch will get off a message before our attack and the Underground will rush to his aid and …” he lifted a hand uncertainly, “and he’ll slip out of the trap Slothen has set.”

Abruzzi walked back and dropped into his command chair on the top level. Out of habit, he checked the three-sixty monitors encircling the bridge. Everything aboard the
Scipio
looked normal—except his officers. They had anxious looks on their faces. Each stared at him, waiting. He felt it, too—as though every moment they hesitated in rescuing the
Hoyer
was a knife in Tahn’s back.

Abruzzi expelled a breath. “Please keep monitoring the
Hoyer’s
actions, Lieutenant. We need to be prepared to advance on a moment’s notice.”

CHAPTER 20

Omias gazed at his reflection in the wall of mirrors adorning Slothen’s outer office. He was a tall man with light brown hair and a neatly braided beard, which accented his cold, lime green eyes and tanned face. He smoothed the wrinkles in his scarlet robe, watching the way the bright light flashed in the gold embroidery adorning his broad chest. Yes, he looked the perfect picture of a soon to be wealthy gentleman.

“How much longer?” he sharply asked the beast sitting behind the desk. Its blue Giclasian skin and blood-red mouth set him on edge, bringing back too many unpleasant memories. Slothen had already kept him waiting for two days with no explanation.

“That is unknown, sir. Magistrate Slothen will call when he’s ready for you. Please sit down.” It extended three of its arms toward a chair. Its utterly toneless voice set him even more on edge.

“No. Thank you.”

Didn’t this pusillanimous animal know he’d been the one to trap the great Baruch? Irritation burned in his breast. Why hadn’t he been met at the spaceport by a marching band and a dozen beautiful women? Not that it really mattered. Once he had his five billion notes, he’d go buy enough communications coverage to assure himself of a place in history.

Looking around the outer office, he grimaced. Ten by ten feet square, the place had putrid lavender walls and stark white furniture—none of the rich wood or stonework of Horeb or other Gamant planets. It disturbed him that he’d come to care about such things. He’d been born on Palaia Station, after all, he ought to value some of the things of his scurrilous youth. Idly, he wondered if any of the lice-infested friends of his childhood still lived. Abandoned by his parents when he’d turned twelve, Ornias had made his own way in the world.

He shuddered just thinking about it. He’d started selling bonds for nonexistent power plants when he turned fourteen. After that, stocks in supposedly rich uro-platinum mines on uninhabited worlds had gone well. Only one man had tried to kill him over the scam after he’d hired a fast transport and found his mine to be nothing more than a meteor crater. But Ornias had gotten rid of him quickly. He’d run into real trouble, however, when he decided to hoodwink war widows into buying land on the parade grounds of prison colonies. Weeping women could affect the most charcoal of hearts. The Magistrates had ordered him arrested. He’d been forced to steal a ship, change his identity, and flee to the hinterlands of Gamant obscurity where he’d flourished like a Giclasian sewer rat. And snaring Baruch had been his greatest achievement.

Annoyed by the delay, he moved to the broad window which looked out over Naas. Spiked buildings spread like a sea of bayonets, their mirrored surfaces gleaming beneath the lemon-colored skies.

“Topew?” a gruff baritone came over the com on the beast’s desk. “Send in Councilman Ornias.”

“Yes, Magistrate. He’s on his way.” Pinning him with catlike amethyst eyes, the beast pointed down a hallway. “It’s the last door on the left, Councilman.”

Ornias’ mouth pursed disgustedly, then he strode past Topew and down the short corridor. Two human guards dressed in purple and gray uniforms stood outside, rifles cradled in their arms. They eyed him speculatively as he approached.

“I’m here to see Magistrate Slothen,” he announced.

“He’s expecting you, sir.” The tall black-haired guard pressed a button on the wall. The door snicked back, revealing a large room, at least fifty feet square, with a high arching ceiling and more putrid lavender paint. Holograms of astronomical features hung high on the walls. Ornias stepped inside, inhaling deeply of the rich spicy fragrance. Exotic, it had an almost sexually intoxicating effect. His gaze lingered on one particular hologram: Palaia Zohar—the black hole companion of the star around which Palaia Station’s enormous bulk orbited. Once every fifty-six years the station complex came perilously close to the singularity, requiring some fancy navigational maneuvers to escape the overwhelming gravitational pull. How old had he been the last time? Well, no matter, the next conjunction had to be at least ten or twelve years away.

“Councilman,” the blue beast behind the broad white desk greeted “I’m Magistrate Slothen.” He tilted his balloon head toward the corner. “And this is Captain Brent Bogomil of the Magisterial cruiser
Jataka,
and Captain Joel Erinyes of the
Klewe.”

Ornias lifted his chin, wondering why Slothen had invited military officers to their meeting. A veiled threat? He scowled at the captains. Bogomil stood maybe five feet ten inches tall, had close-cropped red hair, emerald eyes, and a bluntly squared jaw. Sweat beaded across his pale forehead, running down his plump cheeks. He looked terrified. Erinyes, on the other hand, seemed uncommonly placid—almost gloatingly so. Tall with a thin face and hooked nose, he had coppery hair.

Ornias’ stiffened instinctively and looked back to Slothen. “Why do we have an audience, Magistrate?”

“Do have a seat, Councilman.” Slothen’s wormy hair writhed and Ornias flinched. “Let me offer my congratulations on behalf of the Union of Solar Systems for the valiant services you’ve rendered. Baruch has killed millions of Magisterial citizens in his wild rampages across the galaxy. We are all deeply in your debt for ending his reign of terror.”

“Uh-huh,” Ornias muttered, eyes narrowing. He could feel something coming. The very air itself seemed to crackle with tension. He braced himself for the worst. “If you don’t mind, Magistrate, I’m simply here to collect my five billion notes, then I’ll be on my way. I’ve no desire to take any more of your precious time than is absolutely necessary to conclude our—”