Indeed, it was somewhat in advance of event, as he had already written of the departure of four mining ships and a pleasure yacht for the homeworld, there to exact Balance from the enemy.
He had recorded the names of the pilots who were sworn to fly in this mad venture: Master Pilot Cheever McFarland, First Class Pilot Bhupendra Darteshek, First Class Pilot Andrew Mack, First Class Pilot Dostie Welsin, First Class Pilot Jonni Conrad. He also listed the names of their ships:
Diamond Duty
,
Timonium Core
,
Crystalia
,
Survey Nine
,
Fortune's Reward
. He had paused a moment, then, listening to the cat purring sleepily on his lap, and meditating over the list of stalwarts.
Pilot Darteshek had been a surprise enlistee; Pat Rin had expected him to return to the Juntavas, now that he had delivered his package and satisfied his curiosity. But, no. He had stayed behind while Vilma Karparov returned to their employer, and Pat Rin's inquiry into the matter had won him the pilot's thin smile—and nothing else.
He had no doubt it was Natesa who had arranged for the courier pilot's presence among what Cheever McFarland had dubbed, with no apparent irony, the "strike team." He had not found it necessary to ask. If it comforted her to know that there would be a Juntavas pilot by him during in the upcoming affair, then surely it was no more than simple kindness to accept both her talisman and her hope.
For himself, he saw . . . some hope. That his hand had been forced and his timing thrown askew—well, what choice had he? The Department of the Interior had located him easily. He did not do them the disservice of believing that they would hesitate for an instant to hold Surebleak at hostage. He preferred to go to them on his own terms, using what advantage might come from consternation.
He closed his eyes, going over his arrangements once more.
"Pat Rin?"
He opened his eyes and turned his head, finding her, a shadow in the shadowed doorway.
"Inas," he said, feeling Silk shift against him in protest. "You should be asleep."
"And you should not?" She came forward, shadow taking substance, the flame-stitched gauze robe blazing as she crossed into the light. "
I
do not lift in six hours. Indeed, should it suit me, I may sleep the day away."
"Indeed you might," he said cordially. "And did you say that you would do so, I should certainly put off my lift in order to observe this miracle for myself."
She laughed, low and musical; and leaned against the desk at his side. The gaudy robe illuminated her dark beauty, and flowed tantalizingly along her slender shape. The sash was done but loosely at her waist, and her dainty feet were bare.
"You will freeze," he told her, but she shook her head lightly.
"Not if you come back to bed and warm me."
He raised an eyebrow. "Underdealt, my lady."
"Do you think so? I merely wish to bid you a proper farewell. How am I in error?"
It was the word 'farewell' that caught his ear and sent his glance to the log book, sitting open in its pool of light, pen ready to hand beside it.
"No error at all," he said slowly, and lifted his eyes to hers. "Inas . . . "
She returned his gaze calmly. "Yes, beloved. What has gone amiss?"
"Amiss . . . " He looked away, and bent forward to lay his hand on the book. The movement disturbed Silk, who leapt to the floor with a sleepy protest.
"This becomes yours—as my—as my lifemate and—my heir. If I do not return . . . " He shook his head. "In the back of the book, I have written . . . somewhat . . . of our kin. If any should come here, calling for aid, they must be cared for . . . "
She placed her hand over his on the book. "As your lifemate—and your heir—I will honor the book and study it. I will write in it every day, as you do, for the instruction of those to come. And in the meanwhile, should any of our kin find their way here, I will care for them as best I am able, until your return."
Pat Rin cleared his throat. "The dice may fall with whimsy," he softly. "I may not return."
"That is not acceptable," she replied, and lifted her hand from his, sliding her fingers caressingly under his chin and turning his face up to hers.
"You will return," she said. "Swear it."
Tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away and smiled for her.
"You hold my heart," he said. "If I am able, I will return to you. I swear it."
She smiled then, knowingly. "Liaden," she murmured, and kissed him, not at all gently.
THE DISTRESS SIGNAL blasted through the Tower, bringing the technical crew scrambling back from its tea-break, slapping up emergency screens, pulling in satellite feeds—and swearing, softly, and in several different languages.
"
Kynak-on-the-Rocks
, we have you located," the traffic controller murmured, her hands busy across her keyboard. "State the nature of the problem, and whether you are able to assume orbit."
"Shit no, we can't assume orbit!" Irascible Terran erupted out of the speakers. "We're holed, damn you! Nothing other than plain and fancy piracy. I call upon the Department of the Interior to Balance the damage it has deliberately dealt to Mercenary Unit Higdon's Howlers. I want a representative of that Department to meet me when we land—and we
are
landing, Tower! Give us an approach!"
There was a hurried consultation between the scan tech and the assistant Port Master on Duty—
"We've got leakage," he muttered, upping the magnification of his scans so the rest of the crew could see it.
"We've got a ship approaching Port on a dangerous course, claiming damage and an oxygen emergency," the traffic controller snarled, fingers flying over her board. "They're coming in, no matter what. I'm giving them to Mid-Port general yard. Comm-tech, call the proctors and get a squad over there! Who knows what this Department of the Interior is? Call them, too!" She subsided into silence then, excepting the occasional mutter featuring mercenary ships landing in Solcintra Mid-Port and that had better be two squads of proctors . . .
The comm-tech swung 'round to her board, alerted the proctors; then accessed the planetary directory. Department of the Interior was not listed. The tech bit her lip, and shot a query to the incoming Terran.
"How the bloody hell do
I
know how to get hold of them?" The same hugely annoyed voice snarled. "All I know is that they claim to be in charge of Liad and that they've holed my ship, damn their eyes, and they
will
pay for it—and pay handsome well!"
Proper enough, thought the comm-tech, if the Department—whatever it was—had damaged the Terran's ship, as he seemed certain. And the Department claimed to be "in charge" of Liad? The comm-tech was Liaden, and knew of only one entity that could remotely be supposed to be "in charge" of Liad.
She punched in the code for the Speaker of the Council of Clans.
"THE DEPARTMENT of the Interior is not represented by this Council," Speaker for Council told the port comm-tech testily.
"Request assistance in locating this Department, Speaker," the tech sent back, one eye on her screen, where the Terran transport was growing larger and more dismaying by the moment. "Incoming ship cites a matter of Balance with the Department of the Interior. I allow it to be Terran, ma'am, but the captain further informs us that the Department of the Interior is "in charge" of Liad."
"That is absurd," Speaker stated. "Its wits are wandering."
"Yes ma'am, possibly so. However, it is crying Balance. Someone must answer, else they may sit here for as long as they like, using port resources and paying nothing, contingent upon receiving an answer."
There was a pause, long enough for the comm-tech to reconsider the wisdom of teaching law to Speaker for Council.
"Very well," Speaker said. "Please convey to the captain of the Terran vessel the compliments of the Council and inform him that, in order to pursue his claim of Balance we must know the name of an individual representing the Department of the Interior."
"Yes, Speaker," said the comm-tech, with no small amount of relief. "I will pass that message."
"They want a name, do they?" The Terran demanded of the comm-tech. "Fine, here's a name you can give them: Bar Vad yo'Tornier. He calls himself Commander of Agents."
THE PRISONER WAS not young. He was not Scout-trained. He was—no longer—armed. He inspired neither fear nor the premonition that he was both a danger and a threat to the organization—and to the completion of the Plan.
In fact, the prisoner was old. He sat quietly in the tiny holding cell, the dim blue light casting strange shadows along his face. From time to time, he spoke—numbers, most often. Sums. Account identifiers. Dates. Followed by such elucidations as, "account confiscated," "permissions rescinded," "account inactive." There were few surprises, there.
Prompted, he made other statements, not entirely understood by his auditors: "Phase Two begins when the fourth roll-call is missed."
"Phase Three begins when the fifth roll-call is missed."
"The Exchange declares a trading holiday when the sixth roll-call is missed."
Commander of Agents allowed himself a sigh. This was the second set of drugs. Neither it nor the first had elicited information regarding Korval's effective and surprising defense of the planet Surebleak. The prisoner was likewise ignorant of the locations of Korval's hidey-holes and safeplaces; and resistive of the suggestion that Surebleak might be such a place.
The Commander moved a hand, calling for the third and most potent drug.
The technician hesitated.
The Commander turned his head to look at her.
"Forgive me," she bowed as one to the ultimate authority. "It merely occurs to me, Commander—if this man does indeed hold information vital to our success . . . He is an old man, in good general health, but lately subjected to several severe systemic shocks. There is the possibility of an overload, should we introduce the next drug before this dose has run the system."
"Understood."
The Commander considered the prisoner. Did he hold information vital to the Plan? Surely, he did. And, just as surely, he would be made to give that information into the Department's keeping. The third drug—the third drug was ruthless. Possibly, it should have been administered at once, despite the unfortunate side-effects. The Commander had reasoned that the lesser drugs would leave the prisoner largely intact, and that there might well be need for him sooner than an . . . amended . . . personality could be stabilized.
The need for the information he held was greater than any nebulous future usefulness. After all, it was not unusual for old men to die.
He felt a vibration run up his right arm and glanced down at his wrist-comm; noting at once the "most urgent" tag, and the request that he return to his office.
"Call me before you administer the next drug," he told the tech, and moved toward the door.
"GR17-67. GR17-68," the prisoner said, tonelessly. "Drawing rights invalidated."
The Commander checked, dismayed—for, here, at last, was information, plain, unambiguous—and crippling. If the prisoner was to be believed, the Department had lost access to two of its most lucrative funding sources.
"Check that!" he snapped at the agent standing silently at the prisoner's back.
"Commander."
"GR 24-89," the prisoner said. "Drawing rights invalidated."
The Commander turned and stared at him, seeing an old man slumped in a chair, the dim blue light accentuating the weary lines of his face, eyes unfocussed and dull.
"Check that," he directed the agent, and let himself out of the holding cell.
The loss of funding source GR 24-89 would be . . . catastrophic. The Commander held himself to a walk, allowing no taint of turmoil to touch his face. It would have to be checked. It would all have to be checked. Possibly the prisoner had lied—but when had the dea'Gauss ever lied?
FUNNY, how familiar it was: The gravity, the taste of the air, the smell of the grass, the green-tinged sky, the warmth of the sunlight against her hair—all of it said, "Welcome home."
Of course, this wasn't her home—not even close. The feeling of welcoming familiarity came straight from Val Con, just like the "memory" of the path she was walking to Jelaza Kazone, and the access codes tingling in the tips of her fingers.
She paused on the top of the last hill sloping down into Dragon's Valley, and turned to look back. Squinting, she could make out the Tower at Solcintra Port, stretching tall and black into the greenish sky. Val Con'd be well out of the port by now, she reckoned, resisting the impulse to find out for sure.
Don't jog the man's elbow, Robertson
, she told herself severely, and turned to look out over the valley.
There was the Tree, dark green, dark brown, and 'way too high, its branches tangling with clouds . . .
Welcome.
It was the same sense of warm green joy that had overwhelmed her in her dream—only days ago? She smiled, more wry than not, and nodded toward its mile-high form.
"Jelaza Kazone," she said. "The safest place in the galaxy."
Right.
She brought her sights down, and got her first look at the clan seat, Jelaza Kazone, the house. Distance and the looming Tree worked to make the building seem small—a scale model, maybe, or a toy. She knew better. She could've recited the number of rooms, drawn a map of the public halls—and the private ones—and a map of the inner garden, too.
All from Val Con's knowledge of the place.
"I grew up at Trealla Fantrol," he told her, softly, from memory, "but I was born to be Korval. Uncle Er Thom had been fostered at Jelaza Kazone. He made certain that I knew it as well as he did."
Miri sighed.
Standin' here, gawkin' like a tourist
, she scolded herself.
Get a move on, Captain; you got work to do.
Not to mention explaining herself to Val Con's sister Anthora. She took a breath, feeling Korval's Ring move between her breasts. The last thing Val Con had done was put the Ring on the cord from his shirt, and knot the cord 'round her neck—that, and kiss her—before he went his way and she went hers.