The Rifter's Covenant (69 page)

“Cheer up,” Lokri
drawled. “Think of all those Rifters loaded with sunbursts and nowhere to spend
them.”

“A brand-new set of
victims who don’t know you,” Montrose added.

“Nullskulls,” Marim
snorted, crossing her arms.

The Eya’a chittered
softly.

Jaim watched
Vi’ya’s hands, so strong and sure, clenched on the arms of her pod as the
Dol’jharian tractor guided the ship into the bay. As the
Telvarna
settled down with a gentle thump, Jaim saw her knuckles
whiten for a moment, but then she let go.

“We’re in,” she
said.

Deep in the
Suneater, Norio’s console chimed and lit up, revealing Barrodagh’s face. Norio
felt a glow of satisfaction through the drug-induced muzziness; even Barrodagh
was afraid of him. And he was getting stronger. Soon he would be able to reach
through the screen and grab Barrodagh’s emotions, or those of any other person
on the station.

“Vi’ya is arriving
now. Prepare yourself as we discussed.” Barrodagh’s image winked out abruptly.

Norio’s hands
shook. He dropped one of the capsules and had to fumble for it. He had very
carefully calculated this dose. It would take him to the edge of safety.

Barrodagh would say
he had meant “Medicate yourself to dampen the effect of meeting another
tempath.” There would be no record of his promise to disable the mind-blurs
between here and the Chamber, nor any way to trace that to Barrodagh.

But Norio didn’t
care: he had no intention of meeting another tempath on the Suneater,
especially not Vi’ya. He only wanted to see her if she was delivered to him as
a prisoner.

There was virtually
no one about as he hurried toward the Chamber. For some reason the Dol’jharians
had decided to make a big deal of Vi’ya’s arrival, probably because she was both
a Dol’jharian and a tempath coming to activate the Suneater.

The moth-beats of
the station’s aura sounded like distant drums in his ears, growing as he
approached the Chamber, but they couldn’t reach him. He felt simultaneously
open and armored.

The Tarkans on
guard outside the Chamber stiffened as he approached. He’d learned a lot from
the Dol’jharian woman he’d killed; even though he couldn’t speak Dol’jharian,
just pitching his voice in a peculiar singsong pattern was usually sufficient.
Maybe that was what they thought the Chorei had spoken like.

He heard Lysanter’s
voice inside the Chamber, no doubt preparing for the next experiment. There
would be no guards at either end of the dyplast shield, of course, for he had
no escort this time.

Norio smiled at the
Tarkans, his lips drawn back from his teeth. “I am of the Chorei, here to
commune with the Suneater. Lysanter awaits me.” He sniggered silently; it
sounded so funny in Uni, like a bad serial chip. But they heard only “Chorei,” and
grasping gratefully at Lysanter’s name—no doubt the only other recognizable
word—they motioned him through.

Borne on a wave of
euphoria, he rushed down the last corridor toward the Chamber, where Morrighon
stood with Lysanter.

Morrighon had
decided the only way he could stay alive would be to know Norio’s whereabouts
at all times. Tatriman had given him the links he needed; it was actually
fairly simple. Since no one willingly visited Norio, most of the activity of
his door was likely to be him, coming or going. That cut down on the
surveillance time, and Tatriman’s tap on the imager across from Norio’s
quarters was all he needed. She’d also rigged tinglers for Anaris and him to
use, with a simple pulse code from Lost Earth. “That low a bandwidth, they’ll
never see it in the general noise,” she’d said.

But that wouldn’t
be good enough if Barrodagh managed to schedule another attempt during the
ritual attending the new tempath’s arrival. So Morrighon had come to the
Chamber of Kronos with Lysanter just in case.

“Do you think it’s
entirely safe to have two tempaths on the station at the same time?” he asked
the Urian specialist.

“That’s a
calculated risk,” he replied. “The Tarkans in the bay have special instructions
to deal with her and the two psi-sophonts if anything happens. And Norio has
already medicated himself—”

As if summoned by
his name, Norio himself appeared, eyes drug-hazed. the whites showing all
around, high-pitched sniggers escaping him.

Where were the
guards? Morrighon spun out, shouting for the Tarkans, knowing it was too late.

Horrified, he
tapped his hip in the agreed-upon code: one long, one short.
Norio
.

In the
Telvarna
, Vi’ya stood at the lock
control, waiting until the entire crew was assembled—everyone but the Kelly.
Even Lucifur was coming with them. He pressed against her side, his tail
twitching.

“Look at ’em,”
Marim muttered, pointing at the little viewscreen above the console. The
outside imager showed one edge of a rank of tall black-clad and armed Tarkan
guards standing rigidly at attention. “Why are those blits out there?” she
squawked. “I thought it was just going to be that slimecrawler Barrodagh.”

“Either a royal
welcome or a quick execution,” Lokri drawled as Marim poked at the exterior
imager control. “I see the slug—hey!” she exclaimed as Montrose slapped her hand
away.

“We’re supposed to
be their allies,” the big man growled. “They’re probably all watching you
goggle that spy-eye around.”

“But I want to get
a blink at that Eusabian,” Marim protested.

“You won’t,” Jaim
said, the only one who sounded calm. “He’s got no interest in a scruffy gang
like us. Luckily.” As Marim moved reluctantly away from the imager he added,
“The ship’s been discharged. Time to go.”

“Get it over with,”
Marim muttered, standing on tiptoes as she scanned the screen. “Heyo! Some o’
them big chatzers are nice-lookin’!”

Lokri groaned,
sliding a hand over his eyes. “Always thinking of sex.”

“Or gambling,”
Montrose said from Marim’s other side.

“What else is
there—except food?” Marim said, grinning. Then she fell silent as Vi’ya tabbed
the lock.

Everyone was quiet
now as the doors slid open and the ramp extruded. Sedry Thetris touched herself
quickly in four places—forehead, heart, shoulder, shoulder—in a pattern that
evoked New Glastonbury on Desrien for those who remembered their visit. Lokri
winced, and Vi’ya gritted her teeth.

Lucifur growled.
Vi’ya laid her fingers on his rough, wedge-shaped head to send calming
thoughts, then she started down the ramp, the Eya’a following close behind.

The
Dol’jharians stood motionless and silent, surrounded by weird red-glowing
curvilinear walls partly blocked off by gray flats; banks of bright full-spectrum
lights illuminated the scene, and Vi’ya could see imagers in several locations.
Barrodagh stood at one side of the line of Tarkans, a compad in his hand. But
he did not move, although his eyes flickered to the Eya’a to Vi’ya and back
again as his lips thinned.

“Eughh,” Marim
muttered as her bare feet came into contact with the station floor. “It’s
warm.”

Ivard breathed a
long deep sigh, closing his eyes. “Oh, it’s so beautiful.”

“Quiet,” Lokri
whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Telos, who’s that?”

In the place of
command stood a man taller even than most of the Tarkans. Like them he was
dressed in black, with high black boots, but he did not carry a weapon.

With two or three
long, leisurely strides he met Vi’ya halfway.

She had to look up
into the face she recognized instantly from her dreams. Anaris studied her with
sardonic appraisal. “Welcome,” he said in Dol’jharian, “back within the
governance of your ancestors. The reward is high for those who serve us with
skill and courage.”

She knew it
immediately for a political speech—that this was being imaged for projection
over the hyperwave to all of Eusabian’s allies.

And on Ares they will be watching
.

“The reward,” she
answered in the same tongue, “is in keeping covenant.”

She felt a flash of
anger from him like a blow. It mutated into fear, and she knew neither was at
her words. Around them the station trembled, recalling deep-buried memories of
the jolting quakes of Dol’jhar. Tension and terror radiated from the Tarkans.
Moire patterns washed through the red-glowing walls.

The lights
flickered.

“Shall I summon
the steward to bring more coffee?”

Vannis exerted
every skill and nerve to preside over the breakfast table at the Enclave with
grace and courtesy, endeavoring to set a tone of humor for yet another day.

As had happened
more frequently since the riots, the conspirators who had betrayed Brandon had
gathered to offer their unspoken support. Sebastian Omilov spent many hours of
his day visiting, and some days his son joined them. It was so this morning;
their ranks had been further swelled by the High Phanist. Vannis did not like
or trust this latter, disturbing circumstance; still angry with Desrien and all
its adherents for seducing her mother into exiling herself there, she still was
careful to keep her feelings about religious leaders to herself as she saw to
everyone’s comfort.

The only non-conspirators
were Osri Omilov, from time to time, as today, and Fierin Kendrian, who still
did not understand why her brother had disappeared without warning. But she had
accepted philosophically the legal transfer of her wardship to the Phoenix
House for the remaining two years of her minority, which would end on her
twenty-fifth birthday. In the meantime she refused the inheritance prefix as a
sign of faith in her absent brother.

This meant
residence at the Enclave. To protect the young woman from political teethmarks,
Brandon had asked Vannis to assist. She surrendered her villa to a
newly-arrived family in need of a domicile and transferred her belongings to
the Enclave.

Socially it was another
coup, but politically it was—at least for now—a dead end. The implication was
that she was family.

Emotionally it was
both joy and anguish. None of this showed in her demeanor. She took over as
hostess, planning and presiding over official entertainments, and organizing
the expanded household. Noting that Brandon disliked squadrons of servants
about, she made it her business to discover his official schedule and have the
cleaning done when he was away. She had the terrace rearranged, and served
meals out there at regular times. At first Brandon was seldom there, but she
presided anyway, making certain that one or two interesting people were always
at hand in addition to Fierin, and that the food was inviting. Lately he had
been there more often.

That was all she
saw of him. He was polite, pleasant, responsive to company and conversation,
but he had shut his private life away behind an impermeable shield of good
manners.

Vannis sat at the
breakfast table, smiling across at Sebastian Omilov. His manner was polite but
his gaze lingered, assessing. Was there something special about today? “I’ve
had enough, I believe,” he said. “I’ve still got the Kitharee music from last
night clamoring through my head. I’m afraid if I drink too much of this
excellent coffee the instruments will start tapping on the inside of my skull.”

Osri frowned from
his place next to Fierin, where he invariably sat. He betrayed his tension in
the set of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. “I don’t hear that as music,”
he admitted. “I know they’re in fashion, but I like musicians to play the same
piece—or at least play something that sounds related. At the beginning they did
that, but then everyone seemed to start making up their own music. What a
noise!”

Eloatri laughed
softly. “You did not hear the theme through the center of it?”

Fierin had put he
fork down. “It was the Rift,” she said, her long silver eyes serious. “The Rift
and in the midst, the Suneater.”

Vannis suppressed
an inward sigh. The Rifters. Would they be reaching the Suneater about now?

She wasn’t going to
ask. And because no one offered the information, she decided it was time to
steer the talk away. Keep it light. “The best of the evening for me was
watching the Kelly dance. I made myself dizzy trying to follow the whirl of the
threes within the three circles, all going different ways.”

“With the drums
tapping,” Fierin said, using her spoon and knife at each side of her plate. She
tried to duplicate the intricate triplicate beat, then failed, grinning. “I
need three arms!”

Everyone
laughed—and it was then that Brandon emerged, smiling, faultlessly dressed, and
looking clear-eyed and rested. His expression reflected the company’s mood of
hilarity as he took his place; within the Enclave he would not permit protocol
to be observed, which at first had placed a restraint on everyone, but that had
swiftly dissolved into a lovely sense of freedom.

“It is me?” he
said, looking down the length of his clothing, all blue and white and dull
gold. “Since I didn’t say anything clever, I must have done something stupid.”

Still smiling,
Fierin repeated the conversation about the Kelly. At once Brandon picked up a
fork and attempted the Kelly rhythm. When failed, he and Fierin tried it
together, almost managing before one or the other would falter. It kept them
all in a constant ripple of laughter, as Vannis silently signaled the steward
to bring a plate of hot food for Brandon.

She had everything
she once wanted, she thought, smiling like the rest. But it was all on the
surface. The truth was, the door to her true desire was closed.

She retired from
the conversation as the others carried on, seemingly without effort. But the
evidence of effort was there for the subtle observer: Omilov’s eyes grave above
his smiling mouth; his son’s stiffness; the mere presence of the High Phanist.
They all carried a burden, unseen but real.