Eric Flint's Blog, page 260

A Call To Arms – Snippet 12

A Call To Arms – Snippet 12

CHAPTER NINE

Lisa Donnelly had called from the shuttle landing field to let Travis know that she was ready to come pick up her dog, and to make sure he would be home.

Travis was home, was ready, and had nervously paced exactly one hundred seventy-four circuits around the room by the time the door chime finally rang.

To his relief, the anticipated awkwardness didn’t materialize. Lisa walked in with a smile and a casual greeting, and then dropped into a crouch and whistled for Crumpets. By the time the Scottie came racing from the bedroom on her little legs, and she and Lisa had had their joyous reunion, any hint of discomfort had long since passed.

And if it hadn’t, Lisa’s next smile would have done the trick. “Thank you so much, Travis,” she said, standing up again with the dog resting in the crook of her arm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“It was no trouble,” Travis assured her. “Crumpets is a great little houseguest.”

“Well, good guest or not, I owe you one,” Lisa said. “Thanks again.”

“No problem,” Travis said, bracing himself. “Um…you might not know, just coming in today, but there’s supposed to be an announcement from the Palace in about — ” he checked his chrono ” — an hour. If you leave now, you may not get home in time to watch it live. You’re welcome to wait and watch it here if you’d like.”

“That’s all right — if I don’t make it I can listen in the car,” Lisa said. “I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing,” Travis assured her, trying to keep the sudden desperation out of his voice. He’d been preparing for this moment — and thinking of ways to prolong it — practically since Damocles left Manticoran orbit. “I’ve got some strawberries fresh from this morning’s farmer’s market, and I was going to make some chocolate fondue to dip them in. And you can tell me about Casca while we wait for the broadcast.”

“Oh, Casca was a trip and a half,” Lisa said soberly.

“In a good way, or a bad way?”

“Definitely the bad way.” She hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this — it’s not exactly classified, but Captain Marcello wanted it kept as quiet as possible. But with your sideways way of thinking — and you do know how to keep a secret. The Phobos thing showed that much.”

“Uh-huh,” Travis said, a twinge of guilt pulling at him. He had not, in fact, entirely kept his role in that incident secret. He’d blabbed that one critical detail to his half-brother, Gavin.

At the time, of course, he’d been frustrated and aching and fully intending to leave the Navy once his five-T-year hitch was up.

He’d never known what use Gavin had made of that indiscretion. He’d expected it to come back to haunt him, though, and had walked on eggshells for several months afterward, waiting for the inevitable official fallout.

No such fallout had ever come. But that didn’t mean he didn’t occasionally still feel it looming silently over his head.

Regardless, he’d learned his lesson. Whatever Lisa told him would stay strictly between them. Especially if it meant spending a few more minutes with her this afternoon.

“Why don’t you go into the living room and sit down?” he suggested. “I’ll go get the fondue going.”

“Let me come help,” Lisa volunteered. “Years of eating fondues, and I’ve never yet seen anyone set one up.”

“You may be disappointed to find out how incredibly simple it is,” Travis warned.

“I’ll take my chances,” Lisa said. “Come on. Let’s melt some chocolate into submission, and I’ll tell you all about Casca.”

* * *

Winton family dinners, Edward reflected, didn’t happen very often anymore. And the depressing fact was that when they did they were far too often of this sort.

Bleak. Painful. Quiet.

Heart-rending.

He looked around the table, trying to envision how his family had looked in happier times. But for some reason, his brain found it impossible to bring up those images. All he could see was what was, with perhaps a shadowing of what was to come.

At the head of the table sat his father, King Michael, eating mechanically, his gaze a million light-years away. Beside him was his wife Mary, her own gaze alternating between her husband and the plateful of food she was barely picking at. At Edward’s own sides were his wife Cynthia and his son Richard, neither of whom were making any more headway on their meal than anyone else. On Cynthia’s other side was their daughter Sophie, who was probably trying harder than anyone else in the family to exude some cheerfulness, and failing miserably.

And directly across from Edward was his sister Elizabeth.

Edward was trying hard not to look at her. Probably everyone at the table was, if only from a desire to offer her whatever degree of privacy they could while sitting bare meters away. But perversely, and despite his best intentions, Edward found it impossible to keep his eyes turned away for long.

There was just something about widow’s garb that irresistibly drew people’s attention.

In her place, Edward reflected, he probably would have opted to skip this event entirely. No one would have blamed her. The King certainly hadn’t commanded her presence.

But Elizabeth had a strength of will far beyond Edward’s own, as well as a stubborn streak a kilometer and a half wide. Both qualities had driven him crazy in the past, back when he was the teenaged heir to the Manticoran Throne and she was just a smart-mouthed kid who felt it was her sacred duty to keep her half-brother from feeling too comfortable.

The two of them had butted heads countless times over the years. But there’d never been any doubt in his mind that she loved him dearly, just as there was never any doubt that he loved her.

And now, to see her sitting there like a bag of broken glass…

Perhaps sensing his troubled gaze, she looked up from her plate. Their eyes met, and for a brief eternity a wordless flicker of empathy and understanding flowed between them. Then her eyes closed in a slow blink, and when they opened again the moment had passed. She was again his younger half-sister, a wounded bird, standing defiantly against the pain. “It’s all right, Edward,” she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. “It’s not about me. Not today.”

Edward nodded. Understanding or agreement, she could take it whichever way she wanted.

He looked his attention to the three children seated on her right and left. They, too, were trying to be brave and grown-up. But to him they looked like baby chicks huddled beneath their mother’s wings. They hadn’t been present at the horrific hunting accident that had taken their father, so unlike Elizabeth they wouldn’t have those images etched eternally across their retinas.

But they would never forget the day they’d been given the news. They would never forget the words their grandfather and grandmother had used in that terrible and life-changing moment.

Just as Edward himself would never forget his own ill-considered and morbidly prescient words bare weeks before the tragedy.

Mary and I will be watching them, the King had said, referring to Elizabeth’s step-children as she and her husband Carmichael prepared for their Sphinxian hunt.

So trading off a potential mauling versus guaranteed and unabashed spoiling? Edward had flippantly replied.

He hoped desperately his father hadn’t repeated those words to Elizabeth. Bad enough that he would have to remember them the rest of his life. It would be too much to bear if he knew Elizabeth would also associate her husband’s death with her half-brother that way.

“Edward?”

The word, crashing in upon the silence, was startling. But Edward had had words unexpectedly thrown at him by senior officers over the years, and his body managed not to flinch. “Yes?” he answered, looking up.

His father was gazing at him from the head of the table, his eyes older and wearier than Edward had ever seen them. “It’s time,” the King said gently. “We need to get ready.” He nodded to Edward’s son. “You, too, Richard.”

Edward gave his sister one last glance as he rose from his seat, feeling as he did so his wife Cynthia’s brief reassuring squeeze on his arm. “Yes, Sir,” he said.

It’s not about me. Elizabeth’s quiet words echoed through Edward’s mind as he and his father left the dining room and made their way down the Palace hallway. She’d been right. Tonight was about their father, and about the future of the entire Star Kingdom.

Edward swallowed hard. God help us, he prayed silently. God help us all.

* * *

“Hurry up, Gavin,” Breakwater snapped from across the room. “We’re going to be late.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Winterfall said, peering into the mirror and making a small adjustment to his jacket. He could understand the Chancellor’s impatience; it wasn’t often these days that King Michael asked to address a session of the House of Lords. And it was practically unheard-of for him to ask that the session be broadcast live.

Naturally, Breakwater suspected something underhanded was about to happen. And given that today was also supposed to be the day that the first two of the Pegasus-class corvettes would be formally handed over to MPARS, the focus of the Chancellor’s suspicions were leaning that direction.

Winterfall wasn’t ready yet to buy into Breakwater’s current conspiracy thoughts. Certainly not about the corvettes and MPARS. For one thing, the Navy didn’t have a whole lot of wiggle room in that deal, especially given that the King had officially signed off on it. For another, there was no way Michael would be crazy enough to try to renege on the arrangement in full sight of God, Parliament, and the entire population of Manticore.

In fact, especially given that the Palace had announced Crown Prince Edward would also be there, there was only one possibility Winterfall could see that would jibe with Breakwater’s fears.

And that possibility was a frightening one. If the King had decided that MPARS was chipping too strongly at the RMN, what better solution than to take control of the service away from the Exchequer and make it into its own, independent department? And if he did, who better to hand it off to than his own Navy-trained son?

That scenario apparently hadn’t occurred to Breakwater, and Winterfall had no intention of bringing it to his attention. Still, it was the most likely possibility he’d come up with. And of course, by making the announcement as publicly as possible, the King would give Breakwater a choice: sit silently by in apparent assent, or go ballistic in full view of the entire Star Kingdom.

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 12

Raising Caine – Snippet 12

Chapter Twenty

In orbit; GJ 1248 One (“Adumbratus”)

Caine started awake. He tried to get off his back, get to Buckley —

Hands he hadn’t noticed were holding him down. And he wasn’t in the cargomod anymore.

“That was fast,” commented Bannor’s voice, just behind him.

“The effects of the gas are immediately dispelled by the antidote,” Yiithrii’ah’aash’s voice answered.

Riordan tried to rise up on his elbows. “Buckley is –”

Rena Mizrahi’s face was over his; she was wielding a diagnostic stylus. A light stabbed into his left eye briefly and went away. “Let’s worry about you for now, Captain. Contraction and dilation already normal. Vitals normal.”

“As I assured you,” Yiithrii’ah’aash said. His tone was not impatient or even disappointed; it was sad.

“Thank you, Doctor. And you as well, Ambassador.” Gaspard’s voice was more distant. Caine’s voluntary nerve functions finally began catching up with the restoration of his senses and involuntary reflexes; he rolled his head to the right, saw Gaspard standing in the doorway to the dispensary. Closer, almost out of his field of view at the head of the bed, were the edges of one human torso and one alien torso: Bannor and Yiithrii’ah’aash, respectively. Now realizing that Joe Buckley would have been found and assisted long before he was, Riordan simply asked: “Buckley?”

Bannor moved into Caine’s field of vision, shook his head.

Riordan had expected that answer, but it felt like a physical blow to his stomach, even so. He swallowed. “Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash, I take full responsibility for –”

Gaspard interrupted. “Captain, I have already reviewed the events with Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash, whose surveillance systems recorded everything. He knows you are blameless.”

Blameless? Bullshit: my man, my fault — “Ambassador, with all due respect –”

“Caine Riordan.” Somehow, Yiithrii’ah’aash’s interruption didn’t feel like one; it sounded like a gentle but firm request for attention. “I am aware of the scope of your duties. I am also aware that no being may fully anticipate the actions of another, particularly one so briefly and incompletely known to you as Mr. Buckley.”

“I –”

“Please allow me one further statement. Mr. Gaspard has also acquainted me with the contents of Mr. Buckley’s dossier. There is nothing within it to suggest that he might behave in such a way. Furthermore, none of his prior actions or statements validated taking any abnormal precautions. Indeed, your newly awakened legation members might have construed such precautions as signifying that you distrusted us, or them, or both. In short, you made the best decision, given all the variables and available data.”

“Yes, but it was the wrong decision, nonetheless,” Riordan insisted. “I am the head of security. Even if you — dubiously — insist that I didn’t make any bad decisions, it’s still my command. That makes it my responsibility, and my fault.” Caine saw a slight wrinkle quirk the corner of Bannor’s mouth: a rueful smile which translated as, they’re not going to understand. Ever.

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendril fingers straightened into columns, were still. “I am only slightly familiar with this human predilection for elevating an individual’s level of responsibility above their ability to assure desired outcomes. I note that it is a particularly strong tradition in your human militaries. Am I correct?”

Before Riordan could fashion a reply, Gaspard rolled his eyes and sighed. “You are quite correct, Ambassador. And you are not the only sentient being that finds these superhuman expectations absurd.”

Two of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendrils rose: a motion calling for a pause. “I am not suggesting it is absurd. Indeed, given the relationship between your species’ sociology and expressions of authority in crises, it is probably inevitable.”

Bannor raised an eyebrow. “Ambassador, would you care to explain what you mean?”

“Certainly. Most simply, it is inarguable that there are events for which no individual has sufficient agency to affect the outcome. Yet, those members of your species who are assigned to confront extreme challenges are, by rituals of ranks and oaths, made ‘accountable’ for just such outcomes. This is inherently illogical.”

“Precisely,” Gaspard agreed.

“However,” Yiithrii’ah’aash continued, “this absolute accountability is required in order to overcome your species’ powerful self-preservation instinct. Only because there is no acceptable excuse for failure will an individual court certain death in the discharge of a crucial duty.”

Caine swung his legs over the side of the bed. “And the Slaasriithi have no such instinct toward self-preservation?”

“We do not have it in your measure.”

“And why is that?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash emitted a short, faint purr. “The answer to that is best seen, not explained.”

Well, that’s certainly a convenient all-purpose deferral. “I welcome the opportunity to see and understand. In the meantime, I assure you that there will be no further unauthorized human presences on your ship. This module’s access airlock will be secure-coded, locked, and guarded at all times.” He glanced up at Bannor. “I suspect it already is.” Rulaine’s nod was as faint as his smile. “However, I doubt those precautions will be as effective as the legation’s detailed knowledge of just how Buckley paid for his trespass.”

“Caine Riordan, Mr. Buckley’s death was not a consequence of his trespass. Our ship’s security systems only immobilize intruders, as demonstrated against the others in your own group. Mr. Buckley’s death was simply the result of blocking our power interface extrusion. As I warned you, our systems have not yet been coded to recognize humans as a higher life form.”

Rachel leaned back sharply. “Then what did ‘your systems’ think Buckley was?”

“They identified him as a collection of biological resources that also happened to be obstructing. So they harvested needful compounds from his body as they pushed through it to their objective. They regrettably achieved both all too completely.”

Caine glanced at Gaspard. “Has a burial detail been assembled?”

Gaspard became pale. “None is required.”

Damn. “Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash, why didn’t your anti-trespass systems stop Buckley? Or me, or Chief O’Garran?”

The Slaasriithi’s fingers unfurled into what looked like an appeal. “We presumed that no intruder interested in stealth would slow or encumber themselves by wearing a vacuum suit. However, because Mr. Buckley did, and because it was sealed, our trespass monitors did not detect a bioform. Consequently, their coding instructed them to act as if the intrusion was being carried out by a mechanism. They attempted to disable Mr. Buckley with localized electromagnetic pulses. They were, naturally, ineffective.”

Bannor folded his arms. “Naturally.” And he didn’t say what Riordan presumed he was thinking: you Slaasriithi have pretty lousy autonomous security systems if they can’t figure out and handle something as simple as an intruder in a vac suit.

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendrils writhed without apparent pattern. “I am puzzled, however, by Mr. Buckley’s reason for risking unauthorized entry to our ship. I have heard several of your legation speculate that he may have been motivated by larceny. However, to the extent I understand that concept at all, I cannot see what he hoped to gain. He is extremely distant from any markets where he might liquidate stolen property.”

Caine stood, found his balance unimpaired. “Given how Joe tried to press me for increased access to the cargo module, I suspect he meant to retrieve something incriminating that was mixed in with our shared gear, something he couldn’t get to without raising suspicion.”

Gaspard nodded. “That would explain his power-saw, also. If Buckley wished to remove some object that would bring his checkered past to light, then it would not only be worth the risk of trespassing, but his use of the saw. Once the incriminating object was gone, we might still suspect him of the trespass, but would lack definitive proof.”

“As likely an explanation as any other,” Bannor agreed.

But Riordan’s focus remained on the one failure of the Slaasriithi security system that remained unexplained. “Yiithrii’ah’aash, you still haven’t explained how Chief O’Garran and I slipped through.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash emitted more of a hum than a purr: perhaps he was hoping we wouldn’t return to this topic? “You and Chief O’Garran have been aboard for many weeks. And we met several times. During that time, you were pheromonally marked.” His head angled slightly toward Bannor. “As were you, Major, along with the rest of the conscious travelers. Indeed, your party would not have been gassed at all, had the sensors not detected a weapon.”

Caine shook his head. “That’s not possible. None of my personnel were armed.”

“That is true. But you and your personnel were not alone in responding.”

Gaspard’s pallor became a flush. “Ms. Veriden. Without doubt.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ostrich neck bobbed. “As you say. Usually, our defenses would only physically immobilize intruders. But if a weapon is detected, it activates suppressive gas biots.”

Well, that explains their reaction to Buckley’s hand saw, too. “Ambassador, I offer my personal apologies that a human brought a weapon on board your ship. I am –”

Gaspard shook his head sharply. “No, Captain; this is not your responsibility, even by the letter of the often-absurd laws of military accountability. The culpability is mine.” He turned to Yiithrii’ah’aash. “Ms. Veriden is not part of the legation’s security team; she is my personal, er, assistant. As such, I am to answer for her indiscretions.”

“We thank both of you gentlemen for your forthrightness. It is, as your saying has it, the silver lining to this dark event. However, your protestations of responsibility are as unnecessary as they are illogical. My concern is solely with ensuring that there are no recurrences.” He shifted slightly. “I am also constrained to point out that we must now descend as planned to the planet below us.”

Caine, Bannor, and Gaspard exchanged baffled glances. “We have to leave right now?” Caine asked.

“Yes.”

“With all due respect for our itinerary, Ambassador, we should first ensure that there are no other — well, loose cannons — in our legation.”

“I do not know what unsecured artillery pieces have to do with our current situation, but we may not delay. Various activities have been scheduled to coincide with your visit. But, more importantly, we cannot loiter because we dare not presume that this region of space is secure, even though it is well within our borders. Experience has shown us that all borders are porous. The Arat Kur have occasionally proven it to us in this very system.”

“But the Arat Kur are defeated. Word must have reached even their most far-flung units, by now.”

“Agreed. I invoke the Arat Kur only as an example.” Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ostrich neck seemed to shorten slightly. “The Ktor are much more advanced than the Arat Kur, and if they have the ability to enter Arat Kur space as a surprise to all other powers, including the Dornaani, then our safety is not absolute until we reach Beta Aquilae.”

Gaspard had blanched again. “Do you really think we could be pursued by the Ktor? Here?”

“I think that is extremely unlikely. I also think that very few things in this universe are impossible. Let us make haste to the planet.”

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 11

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 11

The attacks stopped. His pulse was pounding in his ears. His breath was coming out in gouts of hot steam. There wasn’t enough air. Ashok looked around, realized that all of the creatures had pulled back a few steps, as if collecting themselves. They weren’t so much as shaking, and he couldn’t tell if they were even breathing at all. Despite receiving several lethal blows, all six of them were still standing.

“They’re not dying,” Ashok stated.

“I can see that,” Devedas snapped.

Devedas had lopped one of their hands off. The severed appendage was lying in the trampled snow at his feet, blue fingers still twitching, so he kicked it away in disgust. The monster who’d lost the hand went over, picked it up, and casually stuck it inside its furs for safekeeping. Perhaps it would reattach it later somehow. Ashok really didn’t know that much about magical abominations.

“Run for the Heart. I’ll hold them off,” Devedas ordered.

Ashok didn’t dignify that with a reply. He may have been young, but he’d done nothing but train his whole life. He was a son of the highest caste, and he’d be damned if he was going to run from witchcraft. Everything has a weakness. They just had to find it.

The creatures came at them again.

A spear was flung at him. He reacted and swatted it out of the air. A moment later another almost hit Devedas in the back but Ashok barely managed to knock it aside as well. Then the axes were falling, and they seemed ever faster this time. He moved between them, stabbing and slashing. A lucky move put him beneath a swing, and Ashok responded with a draw cut so deep into the monster’s abdomen that it would have split any regular man nearly in two.

That monster calmly walked away, letting another take its place.

Ashok swung for a faceless skull, but it was mutely blocked by a raised ax. He stepped into it, and drove the tip through the space where the mouth would have been. He shoved until steel came out the back of its head and knocked its fur hood off. He shoved until the guard smacked into the stretchy membrane. It still tried to hit him, but he got his other hand up and grabbed onto the ax handle. What does it take to kill you?

Entangled, another monster stepped up to stab him. Devedas intercepted it with a swing so hard that it left the spear splintered and useless. Then Devedas shoulder checked the creature into the snow.

Everything had a weakness…Gravity was one of them. Except for birds, but luckily they weren’t fighting birds.

“Breaking formation!” Ashok shouted. The two of them were hardly a formation, but that’s what they’d been taught to say in training when moving apart. His opponent was bigger and heavier than he was, but Ashok had driven a sword through its face, and that gave him considerable leverage. He jerked the sword to the side, twisting its head around, and then he shoved. The two of them crashed through the crowd, sliding across the snow, toward the edge of the cliff. At the last second, Ashok yanked back hard, pulling his sword free.

The creature slipped on the ice and went to its knees, but didn’t go over the edge. So Ashok kicked it in the chest and sent it rolling over the side. It disappeared in a cloud of ice crystals. He turned back just in time to catch the tip of a spear as it plunged through his thick coat. There was a flash of heat as the edge sliced through his skin. Rolling around the attack, Ashok hacked that creature in the neck. The soft flesh parted, but it still wouldn’t let go of the spear. His boots began sliding across the packed snow as it shoved him toward the edge of the cliff.

Ashok snarled and hacked it in the neck again and again. The rubbery substance came apart beneath the well-honed blade until its head parted from the neck, and hung there, attached only by a flap of skin.

It still didn’t die.

“Move right!” Devedas shouted.

Ashok didn’t hesitate. He threw his body to the side, spear still twisted through his clothing, as Devedas crashed into the monster’s back, sending it flying off the ledge and into space. The spear was yanked out, slicing a new cut across Ashok’s body, just above the first.

The remaining monsters pulled away again, observing.

Ashok could feel the blood running down his stomach. Devedas was grimacing and there was blood running down his scalp from where he’d been struck. They were both panting. He was thankful for the chance to catch his breath, what little of it was available up here.

“Two down. Four to go,” Ashok said. “Ideas?”

“Hack them to bits. Toss the bits over the side.”

He’d been hoping for something better. “Good plan.”

The monsters closed on them a third time. Either he was tiring faster than expected, or they’d grown much faster. The monsters seemed far more confident, and their weapon handling was vastly improved. There was nothing clumsy about them now. A minute of furious combat seemed to stretch on forever. Both sides fought with the savagery worthy of Senior Protectors. Ashok was only able to get in a single solid hit, slicing his blade through a few ribs before the things pulled back again. That one stood there, silently mocking him. Apparently they didn’t have lungs either.

Devedas had done better than Ashok had, and had carved a massive chunk from one of the creature’s legs. The monster was balancing itself with its spear, broken leg dangling in the snow, seemingly as calm as Ashok was. Then he looked over his shoulder to find that they’d been herded to the edge of the cliff.

“They’re toying with us,” Devedas gasped.

Sure enough, when they came for the fourth time, the creatures struck like lightning. Their strength was incredible. Too fast. Devedas legs were swept out from under him by a whirling spear shaft. The monster smoothly recovered, raised the spear, and launched it at Ashok. Devedas swung from the ground and intercepted the killing blow, saving his life again.

Ashok stabbed at that monster, but a jolt of pain ran up his arm as his sword was batted brutally aside by another. Ashok fought with all the skill and savagery he could muster, until the flat of an ax bruised his ribs and knocked the thin air from his lungs. Something else hit him on the hip, cracking bone and forcing him down. He swung for a monster’s legs, but it leapt effortlessly over the flashing blade. Nothing is that fast. Something clubbed him over the head, and by the time the lights quit flashing behind his eyes, the monster he’d attacked had stepped on his sword blade, pinning it to the ice.

It was curious. He’d always thought that at the moment of death, he’d finally know what it was like to feel fear like everyone else, but there was nothing. Ashok tried to draw his knife, but a spear head was shoved through his hood and pressed against his throat. Strange. He’d always thought that pushed to this point he’d feel something.

“Enough!”

The cold iron departed, ripping away a bit of his skin with it. The monsters pulled back again across the small battleground of packed snow, leaving the two acolytes lying there, struggling to breathe. Devedas got to his feet first. He grabbed Ashok by the shoulder and roughly hauled him upright. One of his legs was nothing but tingling, nonresponsive pain. Involuntary tears were forming in his eyes and freezing there. He had to lean against Devedas to keep from falling over. Neither of them could stand on their own, but they both raised their swords.

The four remaining monsters silently parted to make way for another figure. This one was also dressed in thick furs, and Ashok’s first thought was that the creature’s chief had arrived to finish them. Then the newcomer pushed back his hood, revealing dark human skin rather than a stretched blue skull. “Stand down, acolytes. We start them tame for the challengers. Making it to the fourth incarnation is impressive, but I don’t believe you would last more than a few seconds of their fifth.”

Ashok recognized the speaker. He was tall and thin, but wiry strong, with graying hair and a weathered face. Ashok blinked his eyes and shook his head, but the man was still there. Are my eyes broken? He didn’t think he’d been struck in the head, or maybe the lack of air was getting to him, because Ratul, Lord Protector of the Order, couldn’t be here. Ratul had been at the base of the mountain to see them off.

“Master? Why…How?” Devedas stammered. “How did you –”

“Silence.” Their swordmaster was known as Ratul Without Mercy, and he was more frightening than any witchcraft-fueled abominations. “You’ve kept me waiting longer than expected, but I must admit, that was an acceptable demonstration. I am not ashamed to have taught you.”

Coming from Ratul, that was an incredible compliment, and Ashok was pleased to receive it.

His companion, however, was a bit more emotional in his response. “This was part of the test? We nearly died! What kind of brain-damaged fish-eater came up with this?” Devedas shouted as he wiped the blood from his face. Then he realized how unacceptable that emotional outburst was and lowered his head. “Forgive me, Lord Protector.”

Ratul had a way of glaring with his narrow, heavy-lidded eyes that struck fear into all the acolytes capable of feeling such things. “You’re lucky, Devedas. Long ago I cursed my instructor on this very spot for the very same reason. Offense has been given, but not taken. You have faced the guardians of the Heart. Don’t worry about the two you tossed over the side. They’ll climb back up shortly. If these had been men, you might have won. Enough questions for now.” Ratul put his hood back up and began walking away. “Come with me. You have passed.”

“What about Yugantar?” Devedas looked in the direction the other acolyte had fled.

“He didn’t pass. The mountain can have him.”

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 11

Raising Caine – Snippet 11

By the time Riordan reached the commons room, Miles, Trent, and Keith were there. All had guns. Caine shook his head.

“But — ” began Miles.

“No. We can’t. It’s not our ship. The Slaasriithi warned us against this. We can’t inflict any damage on them, or their ship, to save Buckley or even ourselves. Besides, guns are likely to exacerbate any misunderstandings that already exist among our hosts.” None of them looked happy as Heng arrived with a medkit and Bannor showed up with an earcam.

Caine snugged the loop of the tiny device over his ear and added, “Look, this is my screw up: it was on me to ensure that this didn’t happen. So although I asked you to report here, this is strictly a volunteer mission.”

Keith looked at the open hatch. “We’re wasting time.”

Trent smiled his big easy smile. “After you, sir.”

Caine, feeling very much that he did not deserve the loyalty of such fine persons, led the way.

* * *

Halfway to the cargomod, underneath the sounds of the team’s sprinting progress, Riordan heard other footfalls. He turned: swift and surprisingly stealthy, Dora Veriden was following them. Damn it, what’s she doing here? But no time to stop now: her choice, her fate.

As they rounded the second of the corridor’s slight bends, differences in speed began to stretch the group out. Trent — tall, athletic, in his twenties — was outpacing all of them. Miles and Heng, short legs pumping quickly, lost their early lead and started to drop behind, particularly Heng who, although a veteran, was not an active duty SEAL like O’Garran. Keith had originally outpaced Caine slightly, but age and a heavy, if muscular build, were wearing him down. Meanwhile, Dora Veriden, despite a much later start, had almost caught up to Heng.

Trent looked back. Caine waved him on. The big Kiwi showed his real speed and started pulling far ahead.

“You shouldn’t be out here.” The voice from over Caine’s shoulder was guttural, strained: Dora Veriden.

Caine didn’t waste the breath on responding, saved it to try to keep pace with Trent.

Veriden uttered an annoyed grunt, and, with a surprising burst of speed, pulled ahead of Riordan and started closing on the Kiwi. Good God, is she enhanced? Does Gaspard know? Would he have brought along an illegal –?

Up ahead, Trent sprawled headlong just before the turn that led into the turning yard chamber. Veriden veered toward him — and went down an eye-blink later. They both tried to rise, but a mist seemed to be surging intermittently about them, battering them down. Damn it; what the hell –? “Are you seeing this, Ben? Any guesses?” Caine muttered into his collarcom.

No response. Not even a carrier tone. Probably jammed by the Slaasriithi ship’s on-board electronic defenses.

Caine veered toward the right hand wall, the one that led into the turn, kept running while he tried to make out whatever had hit Trent and Dora. But as far as he could tell, they were unharmed, unmarked, except they were covered in what looked like cobwebs —

Webs –?

Caine glanced up. Where the walls met the ceiling, there was a dark seam, rimmed by the same substance which had extruded itself across the cargomod. Could it also conceal something like spinnerets?

Caine hadn’t realized he’d slowed so much and was surprised when both O’Garran and Macmillan raced past him to help Trent and Dora. As they did, vapor-fine filaments jetted downward, so thick that they created the impression of fog.

Within half a second, the strands that had landed on Macmillan stiffened, and the increased resistance brought him down. However, O’Garran managed to dance out of the spray pattern — or had he? Given its density and dispersion, that seemed impossible, unless —

Had the filaments only hit O’Garran because he was close to Macmillan? No time to observe or think: those spinnerets are still spraying. If there’s a better chance to be had by rushing through while they’re busy with Macmillan —

Caine sprinted toward the corner, felt some of the filaments land on him, felt them change consistency: one moment they were as loose as a strand of hair, the next they were steel thread. But the few that hit him were just nuisances, had evidently been aimed at Macmillan.

As Riordan and O’Garran rounded the corner, they also detected the first whiffs of an astringent, medicinal smell.

“Gas?” O’Garran panted, struggling to run. The hardened fibers across of the front of his duty suit had hardened in to a mostly immobile cast.

“Probably,” gasped Caine. “The others: they alive?”

“Think so. Breathing.”

“Good.”

O’Garran started lagging as the scent of the gas rose behind them. “Go,” he said.

Riordan nodded. There was nothing else to do, although helping Joe Buckley — whose skills evidently included those possessed by accomplished felons — had now become a rather ironic objective.

As Caine rounded the final corner into the turning yard, he heard a thump well behind him; O’Garran had gone down. Pushing back against a surge of vomit, Riordan sprinted across the chamber’s circular expanse, came up short when he confronted the cargomod’s still-open doors. The fibrous extrusions now resembled a mahogany lava flow that ran from the bay of the Slaasriithi vessel into the cargomod as one seamless mass. And from beyond that resinous cavern mouth, Riordan heard a single, child-high shriek.

Riordan’s plunge through the doorway was reflexive, but not incautious. Uncertain of what he’d find, he went in low and straight toward cover. But there was no fight in progress, no torture, not even any Slaasriithi or intruders to be seen: just Joe Buckley’s distant torso, squirming irregularly beyond one of the motion-activated lights, halfway along the length of the cargomod.

Caine jumped up, sprinted those twenty yards, scanning for tools as he went, preparing to help Buckley however he could — but stopped when he saw Joe’s predicament. And thought: what the hell is that? — and what the hell can I do?

Vac-suited Joe Buckley seemed to be pinned to the wall next to one of the cargomod’s primary power mains. But in the next moment, Caine realized that the extrusions which had snaked down the wall toward the mains were holding Joe up. But no, that wasn’t quite right, either —

They had transfixed Joe, and were growing, even now, toward the cargomod’s power mains, burrowing through his body to do so. In the one paralyzed second that it took for Riordan to understand what he was seeing, more of Buckley’s abdomen sagged. The hole in it widened, the extrusions leaking a slow but constant secretion that was, from the smell of it, highly alkaline. Joe seemed to rouse out of a stupor, yelled incoherently, sobbed back into quasi-consciousness.

Caine looked around: a power-saw. Hand-sized, the kind used to cut off locks or through simple sheet steel. He grabbed it off the deck, jumped next to Buckley to get to the power mains — and discovered what had probably initiated the horrific scenario.

The power mains were covered by a luminescent polyp that emerged from the extrusion burrowing through Buckley’s body. Another such polyp, lifeless and dull, lay on the deck, evidently torn aside by Buckley when he attempted to connect the saw to the mains and scorched his hands trying. Beyond the burnt meat smell, the air was thick with the medicinal tang of the gas from the corridor, but it was stale, had probably been used at the outset. Apparently, the gas had also kept Joe senseless as the extrusion burrowed through his body in its unswerving purpose: to get to the power mains.

Caine spent one moment looking at the situation, waiting for a solution — any solution — to come to him. But the only course of action that he could think of was the same that would have occurred to his Cro-Magnon ancestors. Without attempting to plug it in, and using his left hand to cover his nose and mouth, Riordan slammed the hand saw down across the conductive polyp attached to the mains.

A blast of heat and energy sent him backwards. The extrusion transfixing Buckley, which had seemed as solid as a stalagmite a moment ago, writhed. Buckley’s eyes opened into panic and pain as the spasms of the extrusion widened the wound, his weight slamming back and forth against the dark root-like protrusion upon which he was impaled. He shrieked. Blood spattered. A fresh wave of the astringent smell preceded a glistening rush of the corrosive fluid which had already eaten a hole through Buckley’s torso. The edges of that gore-rimmed gap widened more rapidly. Fumes arose as tissue and fluids bubbled.

As Caine rose, groggy but resolved to try again, Joe’s screams became more desperate, his writhing wilder — which brought him fractionally closer to the mains. Apparently, the once-luminous fluid that splattered on him when he’d smashed the first polyp remained a powerful conductor. Actinic, blue-white charges danced out of the mains’ sockets and along vaporous trails leading to Buckley’s chest and shoulders. The smell of charring flesh increased along with the smell of the gas. Caine staggered forward, fell to his knees. The scene began doubling, the sounds blurry and indistinct as Buckley’s desperate struggles transformed into spasmodic convulsions —

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 10

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 10

A storm forced the acolytes to take cover for a full day, huddled in a shallow cave, miserable and shivering. On the final morning they ate the last of their dried meat and washed it down with melted snow. They’d resupply from the stores at the Heart or they’d starve. Acolytes often went days without food, but it was difficult to keep moving through terrain like this and stay warm on an empty stomach. Starvation was an excellent motivator to continue plodding on.

Noon of the final day was clear and bright, so bright in fact that they all had to wear leather strips over their eyes with small cuts to see through. Glare could sunburn the eyeball, leaving them blind and helpless. Despite the sun being visible, Ashok had never been this cold before. They were nearing the peak of the tallest mountain in the nation. He had never even imagined that this kind of cold could exist, but it was worth it, because from up here it was as if he could see the entire world.

Logically, Ashok knew it wasn’t the whole world, not even but a small part of their continent of Lok, but it was still an incredible view.

“Magnificent.” Devedas paused next to him and scanned the horizon. “It’s almost enough to make you understand how the superstitious still believe in gods.”

Ashok wanted to say something, but his mouth was so dry that he had to take a drink from his canteen before he could speak. The only reason the water hadn’t completely frozen was because he kept it next to his body. He pointed toward the north. “Where the plains turn brown, that’s the beginning of the great desert of House Zarger. I bet we can almost see the Capitol from here.” Then he pointed toward the northeast, across the plains, to where another, smaller mountain range loomed. “Thao. And on the other side of those are the lands of Vadal, my house.” He slowly turned in a circle, like the hand of a clock, still pointing, naming off great house territories as he went. “Sarnobat, Kharsawan, Akershan.” He turned to the south where the mountains sloped down toward the distant sea. “Devakula.”

“Home,” Devedas agreed.

Ashok kept turning, he couldn’t actually see those distant lands, but he liked to imagine that he could. “Makao.” Then west. “Uttara, Harban.” And a full circle back to the north. “Gujara, Vokkan.”

“So you paid attention to Mindarin’s geography lecture. I’d present you with an achievement ribbon but I didn’t think to put any in my pack.”

“Don’t you understand, Devedas? All of those great houses? We’re the ones who get to maintain the peace between them.” Ashok gestured at the mighty expanse. Maybe the altitude was making him light-headed, but it was a lot to soak in. “All of this is our responsibility. Without the Law, there is no union, and without us, there would be no Law.”

“You’re a strange kid, Ashok,” Devedas said as he started marching toward the summit.

Ashok took one last look at the world before resuming his journey. It was the strongest he’d felt in days.

* * *

Of the three who remained, Yugantar, five-year acolyte, was their oldest and most experienced student. He was the proud son of a chief judge in the Capitol, from a long and accomplished lineage, so it was rather shameful when he ran away and left Ashok and Devedas to die at the hands of the monsters at the summit.

“Get back here!” Devedas shouted, but Yugantar was already fifty yards away, clumsily sliding down the rocks, panicked and trying to escape. “Coward!”

When they’d first risen out of the snow all around them, Ashok had thought that they were only men, dressed in the pelts of some white-furred animal, only as they’d gotten closer he’d realized their visible skin was the color of blue river slush. At first his tired mind thought their bodies were painted like a festival girl, but then he realized they had no faces. Their faces beneath their hoods were nothing more than a thin blue membrane stretched tight over a skull.

“Oceans!” Devedas swore.

Yugantar had been on point and seen them first. No wonder he’d run for his life.

The creatures hadn’t made a sound, but they were spreading out, forming a circle around the two acolytes. Their mouths were sealed, their teeth visible through the stretched skin. Do they eat? Or are they sustained on witchcraft? They were armed with short spears and clumsy axes. Ashok counted six of them in total. Their appearance was unnatural. Thin as untouchables, they had no meat to them, but they didn’t move like they were malnourished. They had no eyes, just round indentations in the sick fabric of their faces, but they seemed to have no problem seeing.

Strangely enough, Ashok still wasn’t afraid, though he knew he probably should have been. This was the sort of thing stories were told about to scare children, or so Ashok had been told because he really couldn’t remember his own childhood. He raised his voice and shouted, “We’re from the Protector Order on official business. It’s illegal to block our way. Move aside.”

Rather than answer, the things kept trudging through the snow toward them.

“They’re abominations,” Devedas hissed. “I don’t think they obey the Law.”

“Everything must obey or deal with the consequences. What are they?”

“I don’t know. Witchcraft! You’re the one that never forgets the lessons.” Devedas drew his sword. The blade was southern, heavy and forward curving, designed for chopping off limbs. He took one last look at their fleeing companion, probably debating if he should follow, but he turned back to the fight. “Damned idiot, Yug. There’s nothing down that mountain but starvation. We get to the Heart or we die. Get ready.”

Ashok drew his own sword. It felt clumsy in the thick fur mitten, but he was afraid to take it off because his skin would doubtlessly freeze to the handle and that would probably be worse.

They were on a rocky shelf, fifty feet wide, next to a wall of dark stone. Fallen snow was being blown about by the howling wind. As the blue-skinned monsters kept spreading out around them, Ashok realized that the leather strap protecting his eyes from the glare also took away much of his peripheral vision. They were in the shade of the rock so he tore the strap off. Much better.

The creatures were moving inward, crouched now, weapons clutched in their long blue fingers. Even with the wind, the snow here was still knee deep, so their movements were awkward and each step required them to lift their legs high to crunch back down through the hard snow. Maneuvering would be difficult. Outnumbered like this, if he and Devedas fell, they were as good as dead.

Devedas realized the same thing. “Get back to back.”

Ashok moved around him, stomping down snow, trying to make a beaten area so he could have some footing.

“Try to look intimidating.”

He wasn’t sure how to do that. Ashok was tall for his age, but didn’t feel particularly intimidating being outnumbered three to one by magical abominations. At his back, Ashok could feel Devedas shaking with nerves and anticipation. Personally, he still felt no fear. His only wish was that he had his real sword instead of this inferior thing. Angruvadal could sweep the creatures from the mountain with ease.

The monsters stopped. The acolytes were in the middle of a twenty-foot circle, hemmed in by the blue creature’s rough iron weapons. Ashok was surprised by how quiet the moment was.

Then they attacked.

The monsters didn’t communicate in any discernible way, but they moved as one. The things lurched forward. He couldn’t even call it a charge, more of a methodical approach through the deep snow, really. He’d been hoping they would clump up and get in each other’s way like a proper mob, but they were coordinated, as a few moved to attack, while the others held back, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

A spear was thrust his way. Ashok turned it aside with the flat of his blade and then countered. The creature was bigger and had far more reach, so only the tip of his sword sunk into the thing’s torso. It pulled back noiselessly. Another swung an ax at his head. Ashok parried it aside, then ran his sword down the handle, raising a cloud of splinters and then dropping one of the thing’s fingers into the snow. That one also pulled away without a sound.

The rest of them kept coming.

One creature lifted its ax overhead, almost leisurely. Ashok lunged forward to drive his blade deep into the thing’s guts. Straight and broad, his sword was designed for thrusting. A good puncture from a two-inch blade would take the fight out of any man, but the ax kept rising. Ashok turned the blade hard, ripped it out the side, and barely got out of the way as the ax was driven through the snow and into the rock below.

Snow was flying between the sharpened edges. The noise of steel striking iron reverberated off of the great stone wall. Devedas grunted as he was cut, but Ashok turned and ran that creature through the ribs before it could follow up. It put one hand on his shoulder and shoved him away. His sword came out, clean, with not a drop of blood to be seen.

The two of them were turning, meeting attack after attack. Devedas lowered his body and swung around to strike the monster closest to Ashok in the leg, while Ashok attacked over Devedas shoulder and punctured a creature’s neck.

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 11

A Call To Arms – Snippet 11

* * *

The diplomatic code from Ulobo’s tablet worked like a charm. Quechua City Space Control let Llyn leave orbit, their instructions and confirmations filled with the sort of stiff formal phrases that must have come straight from the official rule file. By the time of their second, much less serene call, he’d built up a twenty-one-second time delay’s worth of distance.

It made the conversation even more awkward than it otherwise would have been.

“Diplomatic courier ship Score Settler, this is Quechua City Control,” a harsh voice came over the bridge speaker. “Commodore Henderson of the Cascan Defense Force requests that you abort your trip and return immediately to Casca.”

Llyn touched the mike control. “Quechua City Control, this is Score Settler,” he replied. “Captain Ulobo speaking. My apologies, but I’m afraid it will be impossible to accede to your request. General Khetha has received a message requesting him to come at once to Zuckerman, and is determined that that obligation be met.”

He counted out the seconds of the time-delay; and right on target —

“Captain Ulobo, this is not a request,” a new, even harsher voice came on. “You are ordered to return to orbit immediately.”

Or what? Llyn thought back with a tight smile. He’d carefully checked the locations of the CDF’s ships — all four of them — on his way out of orbit, and had confirmed that none of them was in position to come after him.

But there was nothing to be gained by pointing that out. Besides, gloating wasn’t Llyn’s style. “I’m sorry, Quechua City Control, but that simply isn’t possible,” he said. “If all goes well, General Khetha will be back in three months. He’ll be happy to sit down with Commodore Henderson then.”

“Captain Ulobo, I don’t think you fully understand the situation,” the man said. “If you refuse to comply, you will be brought back by force.”

Llyn opened his mouth to reply —

And stopped as one of the displays belatedly caught his eye. It was an ID map of everything in orbit around Casca, all the ships that might be close enough to head off after him. He’d taken all of the CDF warships into account, and dismissed them as any threat.

But he’d forgotten about the Manticore destroyer. And if they started bringing up their impellers right now…

Quickly, he ran the numbers. It would be close — it would be damn close. But if they really, really wanted him, they could indeed have him.

And as if in response to that sudden revelation — “Score Settler, this is Captain Marcello of the Royal Manticoran Naval Ship Damocles,” a new voice came from the speaker. “The Cascan Defense Force has authorized me to pursue and detain or destroy you. Bring your ship around and return to Casca or we will do so.”

Llyn cursed under his breath. He had just one option, and it wasn’t a pretty one. Keying for impeller control, he ran his acceleration and inertial compensator to ninety-five percent.

It wasn’t something he did lightly. It wasn’t something anyone did lightly. Especially not someone whose impeller room was running on full automatic, with no one watching gauges to make sure nothing went wrong. Eighty-five percent was considered the upper limit for safe travel, and virtually no one except warships in combat ever crossed that line.

But Llyn needed more of a lead if he was to stay ahead of Damocles and her missiles. An hour at ninety-five percent should do the trick. Even if Marcello decided to push his own ship to the same limit.

And if he did…well, then it would be a race.

* * *

“CIC confirms, Captain,” Lieutenant Nikkelsen’s voice came from Marcello’s uni-link. “Score Settler is running at ninety-five percent maximum acceleration.”

Lisa shivered. Ninety-five percent. Whoever was aboard really didn’t want anyone catching him.

“Well, that pretty much confirms it’s our boy, doesn’t it?” Commodore Henderson said sourly.

“I would say so, Commodore,” Marcello said, just as sourly, as they all watched the departing icon on the CDF Command Center display. “I was wishing mightily that we hadn’t taken those two beta nodes off-line for inspection last night, but I see now that it wouldn’t really have mattered whether we had or not.”

“Not unless you were willing to red-line your systems, too,” Henderson agreed. “Which I assume you weren’t?”

“I wouldn’t have been, no,” Marcello said. “But seeing that he was willing might have changed my mind.” He gave a little snort. “One more big fat zero for our collection.”

At the rear of the group, Townsend cleared his throat. “If I may, Sir?” he said tentatively. “We also know now that the murderer hasn’t got a tap into high-level CDF files.”

“How do you figure that?” Shiflett asked, frowning.

“Because if he did, he’d have known Damocles’s forward ring was down and she couldn’t give chase,” Townsend said. “I assume that maintenance plan was logged into the Cascans’ system?”

“It was,” Marcello confirmed, nodding. “It also means he hasn’t got an ally tucked in among CDF personnel who could have found that out for him.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I suppose that’s worth something,” Henderson said.

“It’s worth a lot,” Marcello said. “A traitor in your midst could have made for serious future trouble.”

“Agreed,” Henderson said. “On the other hand, a traitor would have been a lead we might have been able to ferret out. This way, we’ve again got zero.”

“Yes,” Marcello murmured. “Whoever this guy is, he’s damn smooth.” He gazed at the display another moment, then turned to Townsend. “And now, I think it’s time we headed back to the ship,” he continued, a slight edge to his voice. “There’s apparently some new reading I have to do.”

Lisa looked at Townsend, too. The big Sphinxian’s face was a little pale, but there was no hint of panic in his expression. Whatever these supposed secret orders were, she had no doubt they really did exist.

What Marcello would choose to do with them, of course, was another matter. Orders were orders, but long-distance ones like this usually included a degree of latitude that ship’s commanders could invoke in case of unforeseen circumstances.

“Of course,” Henderson said. “We’ll continue monitoring him from down here, and Chachani will continue bringing up her impellers, just in case he has a malfunction before he hits the hyper limit. Unless that happens, though, I’m afraid he’s clear and gone.”

“Yes,” Marcello murmured. “I wonder what a megalomaniac like Khetha had — or knew — that could possibly make this whole thing worth this much effort.”

Lisa swallowed. This much effort, and this many lives.

It was a big galaxy, but she couldn’t quite rid herself of the suspicion that the Haven Sector might someday find that out.

It was unlikely to be an enjoyable experience.

* * *

The timer Llyn had set ran to zero…and with that, there was no longer any even theoretical possibility that the Cascans, Manticorans, or Manticoran missiles could catch him.

With a huff of relief, he quickly ran the impellers back to the standard eighty-five percent. He’d half expected Damocles to try anyway, running her own impellers as high as she had to in order to burn off Llyn’s lead.

But Captain Marcello hadn’t been that crazy. And really, who could blame him? He shouldn’t be expected to risk his ship and crew that way, certainly not when all they could even suspect Llyn of was an assault on those two nosy Manticorans he’d caught following him.

And so, for want of a little courage, the captain of Damocles had forfeited his chance to save his worlds.

And the real pity was that he would never know it.

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 09

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 09

Chapter 5

Eighteen years ago

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“This is my place.” Young Ashok crouched next to their tiny fire, trying to soak up enough warmth to get some feeling back into his hands. Three days of freezing cold and terrible terrain had taken its toll on his body.

Devedas was keeping watch at the mouth of the cave. They’d been warned that the wolves here were gigantic, big enough to latch onto a sleeping man’s ankle and drag him out into the night before he could even scream for his companions to save him. Exhausted from the climb, the other acolytes had gone immediately to sleep. Devedas had volunteered to take the first watch. He nodded toward the snoring bodies, huddled together for warmth under their only blanket. “You’re always so damned sure about everything. They’ve been in training for five years. I’ve been here for four. You’ve only been here for barely two. I’m impressed you’ve made it this far at all, but you’re not ready.”

“I won’t let you down,” Ashok assured the older acolyte. Opening and closing his hands, Ashok was pleased to see that only a few of his calluses had been torn off by the rocks and there was no sign of frostbite yet. That climb was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. “Mindarin allowed me. If he thought I was going to slow you down, he would have forbidden me from coming.”

Devedas snorted. “I think he was too surprised that the smallest kid in the program stepped out of line to try and tackle the Heart. I’ve never seen a man that fond of words struck mute before. We could die up here. Aren’t you scared?”

“Probably.” Ashok thought it over. It was hard to explain. He assessed danger and probability as well as anyone else, perhaps even better than most because he just couldn’t work up any emotion about the subject, so he could say he had some measure of ability to experience fear. It just didn’t move him like it did others. It was simply there, in the background, a suggested warning, nothing more. “Yes?”

“How old are you anyway, Ashok?”

“Twelve…” Ashok had to think about it for a moment. It was always cold and snowy in Devakula year-round. He wasn’t permitted to have a calendar. Protector training was so tiring, unrelenting, and sleep was allowed at such odd, inconsistent hours that the days sort of bled together, so he wasn’t actually sure what season it was. “I’ll be twelve in the fall.”

“Then you’re the youngest to ever make the attempt. And it is fall.”

“How can you tell?”

“If it was winter the snow would be over our heads instead of just up to our waists.”

“Oh…I suppose I’m twelve then.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” There wasn’t much room in the cave, but Ashok managed to get his sword out. It was an inferior design, made of regular boring steel, without any of the beauty or power of Angruvadal, but it was what he’d been issued, so he needed to make sure that it was properly maintained. The blade was clean, but Ashok wanted to make sure no moisture had been trapped in the sheath during the climb which might cause rust. Sweat was saltwater, impure as the ocean, and he’d certainly sweated a lot during the day’s journey up the mountainside. He removed a cloth and an oil vial from his pack and began carefully cleaning the sword. Ashok had never been good at conversation, but talking seemed to be the proper thing to do. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen, winter born.” Devedas went back to staring into the dark. “You should turn back in the morning. There’s no shame in not making it to the Heart for any of us, especially on the first try, and especially not for you. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of them give up as well. I could see it in their eyes when we stopped for the night. If you’re thinking about defeat, you’ve already lost. So you won’t be going down alone. Turn back, Ashok. Our rations are half gone. It’s only going to get colder, the air thinner, and you’ve heard the rumors, the seniors won’t talk about it, but there’s something far more dangerous than wolves living at the summit. Once we cross the glacier, we either reach the Heart, or the mountain claims us.”

“You’re the top acolyte in the program,” Ashok said. Stronger, faster, tougher, and always confident, Devedas was easily the best among them. He was the one Ashok looked up to the most. “If anyone can make it, it’s you.”

“I’m not worried about me, stupid. I just don’t want your sliding down a crevasse to your death to be on my conscience.”

“Mindarin says that evil lives in the water. Snow might not be as impure like saltwater, but it’s still out to get us. That’s why it makes itself slippery. Don’t worry, Devedas. I won’t be a burden, but if I start to slow you down, you may leave me behind to be devoured by wolves. I promise not to hold a grudge.”

He chuckled. “Strangely enough, I believe you.”

The two of them were silent for a long time. The only sounds in the cave were the crackle of burning twigs and the snoring of exhausted boys. Satisfied that his sword was clean, sharp, and ready, Ashok returned it to its sheath.

“You miss it, don’t you?” Devedas asked. “The ancestor blade, I mean.”

“Yes.” It was difficult to explain what it was like, being away from something that had absorbed a portion of his life’s spark. It gnawed at him, worse than hunger, or cold, or pain, a constant feeling of loss and weakness. “More than anything.”

“That’s why you’re doing this now, isn’t it? You think reaching the Heart will prove something. You can’t go on living without that sword…I’ve seen it before. What happens to a bearer when they lose that bond, you’d rather die on this mountain than go another night without that sword by your side.”

The older acolyte was correct. Most people were incapable of understanding what it was like to lose a part of yourself, but proving himself worthy would earn it back. “You’ve seen it before because your father was a bearer like me.”

“He was a great man and a hero. Our house was respected, feared even. And then one day our sword broke, shattered into a hundred pieces…Nobody knows what my father did to offend it.”

Such a thing was always a possibility with the ancestor blades. No mortal man could fully understand their convoluted sense of honor, so when one chose to give up the ghosts…that was the end of it. Ashok had never heard Devedas speak freely about this subject before, so he listened intently.

“Just like that, it was all over. Allies abandoned us, friends betrayed us, and within a few seasons my house was defeated and consumed by another, without so much as a sternly worded letter from the Capitol in protest. Now we’re just a poor province in some other family’s lands. There was no inheritance for me, so I was obligated to the Order, because who wants a constant reminder of their family’s shame around?”

“Every man has his place.”

“Platitudes…” Devedas muttered as he stared off into the darkness. “It would have been mine. I know that sword would have picked me next.”

“You can’t know that. No one knows the will of the blade until they try and wield it.”

“It chose my father and my grandfather before him. His father beat its bearer in a duel and proved his worthiness. They forged our house through the strength of their will.” Devedas gave a bitter laugh. “My birthright. My destiny. My place…taken…”

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Ashok said, hoping that his sincerity came through.

Devedas studied him for a time, his expression inscrutable. “It doesn’t matter now.” He returned to his vigil. “I have this watch. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we have to climb to the top of the world.”

* * *

Two of the acolytes had been too weak to continue and had turned back at the glacier, leaving only three to continue the test. There was no dishonor in quitting then. Part of being a Protector was recognizing your physical and mental limitations. They were assets to be spent in defense of the Law, not tossed away in futile gestures. Those who turned back would be able to try to attain senior rank again in the future, but for the three who remained, they had crossed the point of no return. They would reach the Heart or die trying. Another lesson of the Order was that once committed, you held nothing back.

The air was so thin it filled their lungs but provided no strength. Two more days of marching, climbing, tripping, and sliding across the bleak, white surface had left them incoherent with exhaustion. At one point the ice had broken beneath Ashok’s feet, dropping him into a hole. Trapped and freezing, Ashok knew Devedas would have been justified in leaving him behind, but the older student had spent hours digging him out instead.

There were no more conversations during the night, as speaking took too much energy. They made their way across the mountains, following the landmarks the masters had spoken of. Sometimes on snowshoes, other times with picks and ropes, but it was always slow and difficult. No matter how tired he was, or how hard it was to keep his eyes open when they stopped, Ashok always made sure his sword was maintained. Mindarin had taught them that if they took care of their weapons, their weapons would take care of them.

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 10

Raising Caine – Snippet 10

Chapter Nineteen

In transit; GJ 1248’s inner system

Caine stepped back, hands on his hips and shirt clinging to his sweaty back, as Yiithrii’ah’aash’s two helpers sealed the cargomod once again. Bannor nodded at the dull grey door, moved past Riordan. “Let’s get a beer. Sir.” He continued on to the pod-bus.

Caine followed, discovered most of the passengers they traveled with on the previous ride. Sleeman and Lymbery had tarried to examine the quasi-biological extrusions that had extended into the module’s interior, up its sides and, after seamlessly merging with the docking sleeve, reportedly reemerged out in space, fusing into the mooring arms.

As the pod-bus began the short run back to their habmod, Sleeman, still staring at the strange, grainy growths, leaned toward Lymbery. “That extrusion is not just a reinforcing structure. Through it, they’re extending their power and data grids to mesh with the ones in our cargo module. And I’ll bet it didn’t break any seals when it pushed out into free space: it just resumed growing in the vacuum. Probably completed the encystment of the cargomod.”

Lymbery may have nodded.

“But what’s really interesting is that the extrusions are not homogenic. They’re comprised of diverse strands, some of which seem to be evolving into power conduits, judging from the havoc they played with my magnetometer. It looks like the parts that are now in contact with our electrical and data junctures began as probes: gel cysts that contact, sample, and assess the interface. They measure and learn to replicate its electromagnetic ‘flavor,’ so to speak. Then, about an hour later, I saw what looked like a custom-grown interface biot being budded off from the end of that bioelectric vein. By the time we come back here again, I’ll bet that biot has evolved into a power transformer which converts Slaasriithi data and electric current into Terran equivalents and vice versa.” She waited, unaware that the entirety of the pod-bus was staring at her. Tygg’s face was a mix of awe and wonder. When Lymbery failed to react to her hypotheses, Melissa leaned in closer. “Well, whaddya think, Morgan?”

Morgan Lymbery blinked as if roused from a waking dream, winced in annoyance. “All possible but excessively speculative. I remain focused on first matters.”

“What first matters?” pursued Melissa, undeterred by Lymbery’s snappish response.

“The chemical nature of the primary extrusions. I posit supramolecular liquid crystal templating or thermoplastic elastomers.”

“Elastomers?” Melissa echoed skeptically. “Natural rubber and polypropylene isn’t likely to be biogenically organic. It’s softening temperature is too high and its glass transition temperature is still not rugged enough for –”

“That analysis is unrealistically constrained to current human standards. Theoretical limits and permutations point toward lower temperature production ranges and broader operational durability limits. There are –”

Melissa interrupted: Caine had the impression her focus on the topic was so intense that she wasn’t even aware she was being rude. “Yeah, but polypropylene is really nasty stuff. Even if its reliability regime could be expanded, how would an organism that’s carbon based not find that lethally toxic?”

“Analysis flawed at root. Example: hydrochloric acid in the human stomach would be lethal to the parent organism if it escaped containment. Directly analogous internal safe containment systems possible. Also, capability for polypropylene extrusion does not require the storage of propylene itself. Raw stock for combination could be stored as separate constituent parts. Conversion into propylene occurs in peripheral organ or sac, which then immediately expels the compound as extrusions.”

“And how –?”

“Storage mediums could include ethylene and other compounds, exploiting olefin metathesis to reverse the necessary –”

“Can someone translate?” Bannor grumbled. “Or get them to stop?”

Caine smiled. “Melissa, Morgan, you might want to save the rest of your debate for the ride down to the planet tomorrow. We’re home.”

“Home?” said Lymbery, rousing out of what had sounded like demonic possession by a chemistry computer. His wistful reaction to the word “home” hardened into adult resignation when he saw the entry to their habmodule. Perhaps, Caine speculated, he had expected to see the quaint roofs of the small Cotswold village from which he had revolutionized human naval architecture. “Oh. Here.” Lymbery sighed, exited the pod-bus.

Caine exited last and was immediately set upon by Joe Buckley. “Captain,” Buckley began without the courtesy of a preamble, “I didn’t have enough time to get a full inventory of the contents of our individual survival packs.”

Caine hadn’t minded being made an officer — until now. “Uh, Joe, if you have the standard allotments of each item in each pack, and you have the total number of packs, then you just multiply, and you have your inventory totals, right?”

Joe shook his head. “Except the pack allotment data is bad. Most of the kits were upgraded after the fleet left Earth. So a lot of them have outdated content descriptions. The only way to get an accurate inventory is by checking each one.”

“Can’t we get by with an estimate, instead of a precise accounting?”

Buckley looked away. “Only if you’re willing to accept a pretty wide margin of error.”

Caine couldn’t tell if he was hearing a tone of frustrated professionalism or innate anal retentiveness. “Joe, for now, take your best guess at the standard contents of the upgraded packs, and flag the result as ‘estimated.'”

Joe looked away, someplace between disappointed and sullen. “Yeah. Okay. Captain.” He started into the habmodule.

“Joe?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t get stubborn and do something stupid.”

Joe’s voice was now thoroughly respectful, if no less disappointed. “I won’t, sir. I understand the situation.”

Caine almost believed that he did. “Good night, Joe.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

Caine sealed the hatch of the habmodule behind them, watched Joe slouch away toward his stateroom. Given Yiithrii’ah’aash’s warnings about the dangers of moving around the Slaasriithi ship unescorted, Riordan assured himself that no one was stubborn — or stupid — enough to take that kind of risk just to sort out some cargo. Not even Joe Buckley.

* * *

Joe Buckley was that stupid.

Unfortunately, he was also suspiciously proficient at bypassing electronics. He avoided triggering the exit alarm slaved to the inner airlock door. He anticipated and deactivated the touch-sensitive sensors lining every surface within the airlock itself, did the same with the laser trip-wires criss-crossing both the inner and outer hatch coamings, and overrode the lock and disabled the alarm on the outer hatch.

All of which Caine realized in the jarring moment between being awakened by the sound of a repetitive warning tone and the approach of pounding feet. Riordan was already pulling on his duty-suit by the time Ben Hwang, still in shorts and tee shirt, opened his door and panted: “Buckley’s bio monitor in the dispensary just started coding. And he’s not in his cabin.”

Damnit! I should have set a live guard, Caine hammered at himself as he yanked on his shoes and raced past Hwang. “Where does his transponder say he is?”

“He’s off our structure; somewhere on theirs.”

Oh for Christ’s sake —

Bannor nearly collided with Caine as he charged out of his own stateroom. “What’s up?”

“Buckley. On the Slaasriithi hull. Alone. His biomonitor has spiked.”

“Just great. I’ll assemble a team.”

Caine held Bannor’s considerable bicep a moment. “No. You keep Wu and Tygg back here with you. You’re the CO in my absence, and you keep everyone except my response team here in this module. You pulled the firearms from the security packs?”

“As we discussed on the second day.”

“Excellent. You’re to keep them hidden unless someone tries to leave. Then you use them to enforce the no-trespass rule that Buckley ignored.”

“And now you’re going to ignore it, too? Bad plan, boss.”

“Yes, a bad plan. Problem is that doing nothing could be worse. We don’t know what Buckley has done to set off his biomonitor. He could have damaged the ship, hurt a Slaasriithi. He’s our — he’s my — responsibility. I’ve got to get him back. I’ll take Miles, Trent, Keith, and…and the guy from Peking, the vet who’s an EMT?”

“That would be me,” announced Xue Heng, who came striding up the hall. “I will get a med kit, Captain.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you at the hatch.”

“Keep your collarcom open, Caine” Bannor called after him.

“We all will. No way to know what we’re going to run into. Also, get me an earcam. I want you to see what we’re seeing.”

“I’m on it.” Bannor peeled off into the habmod’s combination dress-out compartment and ship’s locker.

Caine got two steps closer to the commons room when Gaspard’s voice emerged from his outsize stateroom. “Captain Riordan, what has happened?” Caine told him. Gaspard nodded. “I will ready a team to follow yours just as soon as –”

“No. You will sit tight. This is a security matter and those are my orders. I’ve already spoken with Major Rulaine, who has instructions in case something happens to me. We discussed contingencies extensively on the trip out here. Now, I’ve got to go.”

Gaspard was still trying to say something, but Caine didn’t have time to listen: according to Ben’s distant, rolling updates, whatever was happening to Buckley was getting more severe. His heart rate was dangerously high and his blood stream was awash with endorphins and a number of unknown substances.

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 10

A Call To Arms – Snippet 10

“Are you talking about the Black Piranhas?” Shiflett asked, pulling out her tablet. “Hang on — Nabaum gave me the original of that file. It was in the will-call folder, number — well, here.” She turned the tablet so Townsend could see it. “See if you have this one.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” For a few seconds Townsend worked the keyboard, frowning intently at the display. Then his face cleared. “Got it,” he said. “But it’s encrypted, and I haven’t got the key.”

Shiflett gestured toward him. “Send it to me. I should be able to run it through the same decryption system the police used on the original.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Townsend said. “Sent.”

“Got it,” Shiflett said. “Let’s see if this works.”

“What exactly are you looking for, TO?” Marcello asked quietly into the silence.

“I’m not sure, Sir,” Lisa confessed. “Lieutenant Nabaum said the kill order had come in the packet from off-world. I’m thinking that if she’s wrong about that, maybe there’ll be something different between it and Missile Tech Townsend’s version.”

“Well, well,” Shiflett said, her voice suddenly intrigued. “Would you look at this? The version on the personal is just like the one the police have…except that the location of the hit is missing. Hello — so are those twelve date and time stamps she was so impressed by.”

“Interesting,” Marcello said. “So it’s possible that someone had the template in place in the packet, then added the location and time before the Piranhas picked it up?”

“That would certainly fit, Sir,” Shiflett said. “That way, the killer wouldn’t have to know in advance where the meeting would take place. Even if the victims were cagey enough to switch the place or time at the last second, he could insert the data into the message and it would still read out as having come from off-world.”

“So either the Piranhas were really quick on the uptake,” Lisa said, “or else the men you saw were just the clean-up squad.”

“It has to be the latter,” Townsend said. “I only heard two shots, which had to be the two outside men. That means the six inside had already been killed, which implies the killer was at the meeting by invitation.”

“Unless he shot the two outside men first and then went in and shot the others,” Lisa suggested.

Townsend shook his head. “You wouldn’t charge into a room and wait until you’d closed the door behind you before you started shooting, Ma’am,” he pointed out. “Even if you tried, your intended victims certainly wouldn’t give you that much time before they started shooting back.”

“Point,” Marcello said. “So when the message says to deal with whoever they found inside, it’s just referring to body disposal?”

“Apparently,” Shiflett said. “And contrary to how Nabaum’s reading it.” She gave a little shrug. “Nice plan, really. If Townsend hadn’t stumbled on them, and they’d gotten the bodies out of there, the murders would have just gone down as unsolved disappearances.”

“And even if they did get caught, there’s a complete disconnect between them and the actual killer,” Marcello agreed. “As an extra bonus, by making it look like the order came from off-planet, it could take months or years for the Cascans to back-track the message and pin down his identity.”

“If they even had the resources to try, Ma’am,” Townsend added.

“Gimmicking the Havenite packet that way couldn’t have been easy, though,” Marcello pointed out.

“He’s already screwed with a maximum-security prison’s recording system,” Shiflett pointed out. “This can’t be any harder.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” Townsend said. “But now that we know that Mr. Smiley might be involved, shouldn’t we ask the Quechua City Police to pick him up?”

“Afraid you haven’t given them much to go on,” Shiflett said.

“What about the picture?” Townsend asked. “Redko got you and the cops a picture, didn’t he?”

“What are you talking about?” Shiflett demanded.

“I pointed him to the killer and told him to get a picture,” Townsend said, sitting up straighter in his chair. “He didn’t –? Oh, no. Damn it.”

Shiflett had already keyed her uni-link. “Lieutenant Nabaum,” she ordered, her eyes smoldering. “When was this, Townsend?”

“Just before I got grabbed by the clean-up crew,” Townsend said between clenched teeth. “I sent them in pairs — he should have had someone with him.”

“His locator’s not registering,” Marcello muttered, glowering at his own uni-link. He shot a look at Shiflett, still waiting impatiently for Nabaum to answer, then turned to Lisa. “TO, get our people out there,” he ordered. “Get them on the streets and have them start a search. Starting at –” he gestured to Townsend.

“Barclay Street and Marsala Avenue,” Townsend supplied.

“Starting there,” Marcello said. “Have them look everywhere a human being could be hidden. Tell them they’re looking for EW Tech Redko.” His lips tightened. “Or,” he added quietly, “his body.”

* * *

It took the Damocles crew and, eventually, most of the Quechua City police force a solid hour to find Redko. He and a Spacer Second Class named Aj Krit were taped to the back wall of a dumpster in a service alley four blocks away from the corner where Chomps had left them, with a couple of trash bags strategically placed to hide them from view.

To Chomps’s surprise and infinite relief, they were alive.

According to the petty officer who found them, Redko swore for three solid minutes after they got the tape off his mouth while they were untaping him from the dumpster. By the time Chomps and Commander Donnelly arrived he had apparently run out of curses.

But from the look in his eye Chomps was pretty sure he was ready to do a repeat performance.

“About freaking time,” he bit out as he spotted Townsend. His eyes flicked to Donnelly, and Chomps could see him revising his vocabulary now that a senior officer was present. “I was starting to think you were going to let me get a private tour of the Quechua City garbage sorter. What the hell kept you?”

“It got complicated,” Chomps said, some vocabulary of his own very much wanting to come out. “What the hell happened?”

“What do you think happened?” Redko said bitterly. “He got the drop on us, that’s what. We never even saw him coming.”

“And how exactly was there even a drop he could get?” Chomps demanded. “You were supposed to take a picture. One. From a safe distance.”

“Well, I couldn’t, could I?” Redko shot back. “He never gave me a clear shot. So we figured we’d follow him, just for a minute or so, and try to get at least a solid profile on him.” He nodded back over his shoulder at the dumpster. “Only next thing I knew, we were wrapped up like bargain-priced mummies and plastered against the back of that thing. Plastered solid — I couldn’t even kick the sides to try to get someone’s attention.”

“Consider yourself lucky you’re able to complain about it,” Donnelly advised tersely. “We think the man you were tailing killed eight other men.”

“I was thinking –” Redko broke off. “Did you say eight, Ma’am? But –” he looked back at Chomps.

“Eight,” Chomps confirmed. “The two shots we heard were the last of a string. As Commander Donnelly says, consider yourself lucky.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Redko said, in a considerably more subdued voice. “Well…did you get him?”

“Not yet,” Donnelly said. “But the police have an alert out, and Commodore Henderson has the CDF checking all shuttle flights he might have been able to catch.”

“They’ll get him,” Chomps promised. “In the meantime…” He looked at Donnelly.

She nodded. “The hospital for a quick check, then to the police station for a debriefing.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Chomps gestured. “Come on, Reddy. I’ll help you to the car.”

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 08

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 08

“I swear, you’re not going to be happy until I agree to duel you again, will you?”

“Someday, I’ll get my rematch,” Devedas said as he traced his thumb down the white scar that ran from his right eye to his chin. Even a Protector couldn’t fully heal from a wound inflicted by the black steel of an ancestor blade.

“I still feel bad about the scar.”

“No, you don’t. And even with it I’m still far better looking than you are. Regardless, I said I would deliver his message personally.” Devedas opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “It gave me an excuse to visit.”

Sure enough, Ashok’s name was on it, though the humidity had caused the ink to bleed. Ashok took the letter. It bore the seal of the Order and had come all the way from the Capitol, but he didn’t break the wax.

“What are you waiting for?”

The letter probably contained his next assignment. “In a moment.”

“Ah, the great Ashok and his legendary sense of commitment. You can’t read it yet because the moment you do you’ll be obligated to leap up and rush off to wherever the Order requires you next. The fiercest beasts, the harshest duties, the worst violators, all fall before the unflinching judgment of Black Hearted Ashok. You make the rest of us look lazy.”

“You don’t need my help for that.”

Devedas laughed. “I know you better than anyone. You’ve reached your twenty. You can leave the Order whenever you want and return to your house with honor. Vadal women are gorgeous, and no doubt they’ll pick the best-looking one to be your wife. Retire and that woman can start providing you with sons. Come on, man! You just defeated a pair of demons at the same time. That’s the stuff of legends! When was the last time one of us did that?”

“Kantelin Vokkan, twenty-eight-year master, in the year 540,” Ashok said absently.

“Of course, you’d remember the history lessons…You know how rare it is for a Protector to actually retire? Your house will name you to Thakoor for sure. They’ve probably already built a castle for you. Neighboring houses will cower at the mention of your name.”

Ashok just shook his head. “You’ve served your obligation, but you’re still here.”

“That’s because I’m far better at dispensing justice than you are. I’ll do this until I die,” Devedas grinned. “Besides, what do I have to go back to?”

He believed the real reason was because Devedas wanted to be the next master, but it would have been impolite to suggest such a thing. The Law declared its Protectors were not allowed to have personal ambition. Ambition got in the way of following orders. Ashok tried to change the subject. “So, do you have any news of the civilized world?”

“By civilized, you mean your house?”

Ashok had only been a small child when he’d been obligated, and Protectors were never dispatched to deal with lawbreakers in their own house so as to prevent bias, so it had been a long time since he’d been to his ancestral lands. “I barely remember it at all. The sword probably remembers more about Vadal than I do.”

“Ah, mighty Vadal, jewel of the houses. I was there last season when House Vokkan got uppity and tested your western borders. You didn’t miss much. It was a rout. Your aunt Bidaya still rules. Your cousin Harta is said to be the finest orator in the Capitol and has the judges dancing like puppets on a string. The women are pretty, the sun shines every day, crops grow year-round, and everyone is fat and happy, awaiting the return of their legendary son so he can bring home the family sword. What else do you want to know? Open the damned letter.”

“What of your house?”

“Devakula is snow, volcanos, and walruses.” Devedas grew somber. “Seriously, Ashok, open the letter or I’ll do it for you. Master Mindarin has been ill.”

“Ill?” Protectors didn’t get sick, unless…”Why didn’t you tell me?” Ashok snapped as he broke the seal.

“I only just heard myself from the messenger.”

Ashok read in silence. A cold feeling settled in his guts.

“And?”

“I’m to return to the Capitol immediately and present myself before the master.” Ignoring the protests of his sore muscles, Ashok got up, and went to his belongings.

“Did it say why?” Devedas asked suspiciously.

“No.” He put the sword belt around his waist and cinched it tight. In this heat, fifty pounds of armor would travel faster in a pack on his back than on his body. He’d make much better time that way. It was about a hundred miles to get out of the jungle and to the Gujaran’s next real town. On foot, through this terrain, if he called on the Heart of the Mountain and pushed himself to exhaustion he could be there tomorrow afternoon. If they didn’t gift him with a team of swift horses there, he’d confiscate some. Riding them nearly to death and switching mounts at every settlement along the interior, this time of year with dry roads, he could be at the Capitol in less than three weeks.

“I recognize that face. As is said, when duty calls, Ashok does not hesitate.” Devedas didn’t seem inclined to get off the grass or leave the shade. “Mindarin is dying, isn’t he?”

“This letter was written a month ago. He may already be dead.” Ashok saw that the worker Devedas had yelled at earlier was returning with a wineskin and a basket of food. He snatched the skin from the red-faced and gasping inferior and took a long drink. The wine tasted almost as brackish as the water here. Then he tossed it over.

Devedas caught the skin, took a drink, and then spit it out with a grimace. “This is their good stuff?”

Ashok took a few rice balls out of the basket and then snapped at the worker, “I require a travelling pack, a few days’ rations, and one of those silks to keep out bugs and snakes while you sleep. What are you waiting for? Move!” Ashok kicked the man in the leg for emphasis. He immediately dropped the basket and ran for his life. The inferiors were odd here, the casteless took up spears, the warriors didn’t want to fight demons, and the workers were high strung. Ashok hadn’t even kicked him hard.

“If Mindarin is on his death bed, and he sent for you…” Devedas left that thought hanging.

“I’m sure it’s for something else.”

“There can be only one reason they’d call you back to the Capitol now.”

Ashok shoved a rice ball into his mouth and began chewing as he gathered his belongings. If his mouth was full, he wouldn’t have to answer. He knew Devedas had dreams of leading the Order. Ashok simply wanted to fulfill his responsibilities to the Law. Nothing more.

“I received no summons. They’re going to promote you to his office rather than me.” Devedas was silent for a long time, then he gave a bitter laugh. “Of course, a son of the finest of the great houses, who has a home to return to, and a sword that destines him to rule it, why not give him one more honor? What’s a promotion to a man like that? But for a man who has sacrificed just as much in service to the Law, who has no house to return to, and no future except for servitude, who could use such a title to rebuild his family name…To a man to whom such an honor would mean everything, it is not granted.”

Ashok choked down the too dry rice, and regretted tossing aside the wine. “It’s not a contest.”

“Of course not, there can be no contest with Ashok the Fearless,” Devedas raised his voice. “Because when you fight Ashok, all of his ancestors fight with him. I’ve done just as much as you have for the Order, only I’ve done it with the strength of my own arm, not that of the fifty generations who came before.”

He didn’t like when Devedas fell into one of his moods. “We all have a place in the Law. Accept yours, Devedas. There’s comfort in that.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“I don’t know why I’ve been summoned, but if it’s to take Mindarin’s place, so be it. I don’t want his authority. You know I never have. However, I’ll do whatever I’m commanded and I’ll ask for nothing in return.”

“Your obnoxious inability to lie annoys me to no end.” Devedas sighed as he stood up. “But it also makes it impossible to hate you.”

Several warriors were hurrying their way, and one of them was carrying a large marching pack. It was still dark with sweat from the soldier it had been confiscated from. “I must go.” He looked at his brother, and as was the custom in Vadal lands, gave a deep, respectful bow. Devedas returned the gesture. When he lifted his head, Ashok said, “Believe me, Devedas, if it were up to me, I’d much rather they picked you.”

“I know. So who’s in the grave, Ashok?”

“I buried a casteless.”

“Did you kill him?”

“He killed himself through disobedience”

“What an odd thing to waste your time with.” Devedas kicked at the freshly turned dirt. “Why would you do that?”

Ashok didn’t actually know the answer. “Farewell, Devedas.”

“Until we meet again, brother.”