Stardogs (16 page)

Teovan had his trademark antique .22 pistol. Camo carried a light machine-gun, and Blower a wicked looking whippet. The way he held it you could see he felt little more than disdain for something that only killed one person at a time. In the other hand he held a trigger-transmitter. Its red light winked. That device he held with great care.

“Nobody move,” Teovan said, as others might say ‘Good morning’. The bodyguards were seriously off-sides. On the window side of their charge. The short stocky one, furthest off, realised his hands were invisible to the three. But as his hand touched the butt of his issue pistol, he felt the muzzle of another weapon pressed to his ribs. Syrian Byrnant said, “Don’t,” very quietly.

“Raise your hands slowly and carefully.” Everyone responded. Everyone, but the rider. His hands were gently caressing the nodes of the Stardog, trying to calm the beast who was riding a wild
between
wave, and coping with an emotional storm.

“You!” Camo stepped over and prodded Liton with the barrel of the LMG. “Hand’s up!”

Liton had been genuinely unaware of the hi-jacking attempt. All he had known was that powerful emotions were upsetting Shahjah. The jab with the gunbarrel made him fall sideways. He looked up into the bared teeth of the huge Yak killer. And started with fright. Johannes found himself grabbing the barrel of the machine-rifle. “You madman! we’re in Surf. In theta-space! And you never threaten a rider in the presence of their dog!”

The warning came too late. Despite the fact that riding the gravs in surf took all her mental and physical ability, Shahjah suddenly twisted and rippled like a mad thing. Chaos erupted and they were all flung about like rag dolls.

In the falling writhe of bodies Sirian Brynant lost his grip on his firearm. The shorter bodyguard managed to draw his while falling. And in its thunder Sirian realised that being a good campaign-manager hadn’t taught him to kill. He could die without training, however.

Johannes Wienan clung desperately to Camo’s weapon, as they cartwheeled. But the soft leaguesman was no match for the strength of the thug. Somehow the Yakuza had found his feet. Despite all the young Leaguesman could do in a few seconds the muzzle of that thing would be pressed into his abdomen. Then, abruptly, the strong hands went slack. The Yak fell, a thrown eighteen-inch
Kukri
sticking out of his neck. It had severed his spine.

Shari’s second bodyguard had tried to take on Teovan. And died before he could even draw his weapon.

Blower saw it all going wrong. Saw his friend Camo, his protector and companion of many years, dead, in a fight with the little Leaguesman. He dropped the bomb-trigger. This had to be personal. He raised the whippet in both hands. It was a cut down .410 over-under, loaded with solid slugs. Took aim. Fired.

But it had taken a split second to do that. Not enough time for the shocked Leaguesman to do anything. But enough time for Liton to dive in front of him. At that range the solid slug went right through the rider’s chest, through his spine, and struck against the Leaguesman’s arm. Too late the surviving bodyguard staggered to his feet and shot Blower, before the little explosives man could squeeze the second trigger. Like Teovan, who had rolled toward the shelter of the cocktail cabinet, the stocky bodyguard was an excellent shot.

Shari had been shocked by the speed of it all. Now she realised that she at least was protected by her Station-made bullet-proof garment. “Behind me!” she screamed, and tried to pull Tanzo and Caro behind her not very substantial form. Her yell drew fire. It also elicited the wrong reaction from the previously shocked-into-immobility Countess. She flung herself like a shield in front of Shari, knocking the Princess down. And took the bullet that Sam Teovan had intended for the Princess’s brain.

Teovan had forgotten about the other ridergirl and the debt-servant. The ridergirl was just screaming in a foetal ball. But Lila had armed herself with a fallen bottle of a very rare liqueur. It was made from hand-picked wild black cherries and had flakes of real gold suspended in its syrupy 130o proof liquid. She hit him over the head with such force that the heavy handblown glass broke. He fell like a polled ox. She barely beat the leaping Deo, another
Kukri
in hand, to him.

In the meanwhile the cataclysmic ride through the chaos of
between
continued. Deo, his poker face transformed into a flame-eyed killing mask, pulled Teovan to his feet with one hand. The Yakuza man’s head rolled and lolled. The
Kukri
came up, the weird light of red-shifted stars twisting and leaping in the flame-pattern of the ancient steel.

“DEO! Come help me!” Shari’s voice was full of fear.

Looking at those killer eyes you would have thought nothing could have stopped the unobtrusive servant-turned-killing-machine from first cutting his victim’s throat. But at her call he dropped Teovan and ran to her. She was trying to rip open the fallen Countess’s elegant blouse top, and being defeated by the clumsiness of her fingers and her fear. He solved the problem with a slash of the
Kukri,
exposing Caro Leyven’s two largest assets. The bullet had struck one of these difficult-to-miss targets, from the side. The .22 entry wound was small. There was little blood here. But the exit wound… the bullet must have struck a rib and skied along that… The exit path was a long, bloody ragged tear, that was beginning to bleed copiously. Shari saw the wound, bit her lip and closed her eyes. The tears welled out from under the lids.

Her servant took her by both shoulders and squeezed. “Enough, my Princess. Your silly brave friend will not die.”

She opened her eyes. Almost smiled. “Thank you Deo. I… thought she’d got herself killed for me.”

“She will live to prattle on, my Princess. She was lucky. The wound there bleeds already because it is a surface wound. Make a pad of material and apply pressure to it, to stop the bleeding. Don’t press too hard. She may have a broken rib. I must see to other things now.”

She nodded, grateful to be told what to do. You could prepare for your whole lifetime, but it was not the same as experience. At least her personal assassin had the experience.

Others, in the aftermath of the brief violence, had begun to react. The angular Leaguesman ignored his wounded compatriot and picked up the alternately sobbing and screaming rider-to-be. He shook her furiously so that her head snapped about. It seemed to be making little difference. Lila had picked up Teovan’s gun. She stood over him, gun in one hand, a bottleneck full of jagged glass knives in the other. The surviving bodyguard had pulled himself to his feet, and, seeing that the situation was reasonably safe, had set about first making sure that Sirian Brynant was disarmed, and then seeing what first-aid he could render.

Tanzo Adendorff did not react fast. But she was not prone to panic either. She found her fallen glasses. Perched them on her nose and surveyed the scene. Then she went to the sprawled rider. There was still life in the limp body. Without knowing quite why she did it, she managed to drag the slight man onto the Stardog’s exposed skin.

She sat there with his head in her lap, as his lifeblood pumped onto the grey rugose skin beneath them. She had no idea what to do, but in actuality it made no difference. There was nothing that could be done. The rider opened those innocent eyes of his briefly. And somehow, above his own pain, he smiled at her. He tried to say something. It could have been ‘mother’. Emotion-wells twenty-five years undisturbed in the dry mind of an impoverished and single-minded scholar were opened and overflowed. She wept as he died.

Only Captain Viscount Martin Brettan, and the dead, had not moved. His eyes were cold, calculating. He considered the situation. He knew his mission remained the same. But not now. First the Stardog must be saved. And that meant the rider. There were various possibilities. Well, he would try the least compromising first.

As Deo went to the younger Leaguesman’s assistance, Martin Brettan stepped across to the other and removed the sobbing, screaming girl from his bony hands. Pushed the startled man aside and took a bottle from the clasps in the cocktail counter. Firmly pushed it against her lips, and, as she opened her mouth to scream again poured neat hundred year-old Cognac down her throat. She gasped, gurgled and spluttered. A detached part of his mind reflected that it was an awesome waste of very good liquor.

A quick glance satisfied him that the enraged Leaguesman behind her could not see his hands. He risked the hand-signal for ‘calm’. She was wide-eyed and shaking, but at least she’d stopped screaming. “It’s dying!” she said in a small, frightened, flat voice.

He turned. “Here, you fool Leaguesman. Tell her what to do with that damned hand wiggling of yours. Frighten her again and
I’ll
beat you to pulp. She says the beast is dying.”

With an icy glare the Leaguesman took the girl’s elbow. But the Viscount noticed his grip was gentle, as he led her across to the exposed piece of Stardog-skin. The leaguesman also attempted no threats when he signed to her. He simply gave instructions. The still occasionally sobbing girl sat down, her short, bitten-nailed fingers gently touching the hide.

“Princess Shari.” The surviving bodyguard bowed before her, as she and Otto fussed over Caro’s wound. She looked up. Fended Otto’s anxious nose from the Countess’s face. “What is it, Albeer?”

“Your Highness, the pris… Sir Sirian is calling for you. He is dying, your Highness.”

“Oh. I… I don’t want to leave the countess. I suppose I’d better. Will you come and hold this pad for me, please.”

The bodyguard looked confused. “I should go with you, your Highness. He was one of the conspirators.”

A flash of her old imperiousness returned. “Sirian! He faints at the sight of blood.
I
can deal with
him
. Now, come and hold this pad. You’ve got to be gentle because Deo says she may have broken a rib. But you’ve got to press hard enough to stop the bleeding. Tch. Don’t be afraid of her breasts. They won’t bite you, man.”

She walked across, followed by Otto, to where her former Campaign-manager lay.

He looked feebly up at her as she knelt beside him. His normally slightly florid face was drained and yellow-white. His lips were beginning to turn blue. He reached up a weak hand. She took it. “Forgive me, Princess.” She squeezed the hand. He fought for breath. “They… promised me there’d be no… killing.”

“Why, Sirian?”

He shook his head weakly. “My son… They took photographs… Said they’d expose him….”

She squeezed his hand again. “You silly old man. You should have come to me. I’d have fixed it.”

His face was twisted in pain, but it seemed to lighten. He did not reply, but squeezed her hand weakly. Then his grip went slack, and she knew there was no point in staying any longer. The starswirl outside the cockpit did not seem so red any more. Or was that just the burning behind her eyes?

She went back to where Caro lay, just in time to be there when she opened her eyes. “Just lie still, dear. You are going to be all right.”

The countess blinked, trying to focus. “I was shot.” Shari sighed to herself as she reached down to fend off Otto. Caro Leyven might be loyal, but she did tend to state the obvious. Usually twice.

“Yes. You decided to… to save my life.” The Princess smiled, and stroked her forehead. “Now Lieutenant Albeer can stop admiring your… endowments, and leave me to hold the pad against your wound.” She turned to the bodyguard, and said with a smile that he found thanks enough, “Thank you. If it is not too much trouble, Lieutenant, will you find me some cushions and something to cover Countess Leyven with?” He scrambled hastily to his feet, nodding and saluting.

Shari shook her head at his departing back. “Really Caro. How could you expose yourself to that poor man? He lost about three pounds in sweat holding that pad.”

It drew a weak chuckle from the war-wounded. “Ow. That hurts. Please don’t make me laugh, Princess.”

Shari smiled. “I’m just glad you still
can
laugh, dear. I though you had killed yourself for me. You made both Otto and me very anxious.”

One of those relative lulls of silence settled over the cockpit. Martin Brettan was busy tying up the still groggy Teovan. Deo was splinting the arm of the younger leaguesman. The girl rider sat up. “It’s no use!” She suddenly announced in her too loud deaf-person voice. The statement was full of unbearable pain. “The Stardog is grieving and dying… it can’t spare enough to talk to me.”

The realization of what that meant spread like melting jelly across the cockpit. Only Otto did not pull back into himself. Instead, the little dog left Shari’s side, and walked across to the ridergirl and lifted her forearm with his insistent nose. It took her a few moments to work out what was happening. Then she looked down, and with an inarticulate cry took the small dog into her arms. She buried her gaunt face in its fur.

The Leaguesman was shocked into forgetting that his League had deafened the riderfolk. “Hey, you! Girl! Leave that dog alone!” When he realized that she wasn’t going to hear him he stepped forward either to hit her or to strike at Otto. Sharp white teeth were bared from under the moustache and a menacing growl totally out of proportion to the size of the dog, warned him off. Otto was a small dog, not bred for gentle behavior. Well, his actual breed was not identifiable. But he had nothing against biting this particular human if it came near him.

“Don’t bite him unless you
have
to, Otto. He’d probably give you food poisoning.” The Princess’s voice would have cut glass. “Leaguesman Kadar. I suggest you remember who that dog belongs to. Touch him at your peril. And I don’t just mean that he’ll bite you.”

The affronted Leaguesman drew himself up sharply, his jaw thrust forward. His eyes bulged. His thin lipped mouth worked. He was plainly full of barely contained invective. Finally he burst out. “You! You dare to threaten the League?”

She snorted. “I dare. What are you going to do about it? Kill the dying beast we are riding on?”