The Thrones of Kronos (51 page)

But it was too late. Eusabian touched the ship—an oblique
counter to Anaris’s oblique defiance—and the pucker slurped open, revealing a
dimly glowing interior. The Avatar peered inside, then stepped back, gazing
narrow-eyed over his shoulder at Lysanter with surprise and displeasure.

Lysanter bowed, rigid and formal, as if the protocol could
snatch back the moment of error. “Lord, as my reports on the first bay noted,
the Urian vessels appear to imprint on the first sentient to touch them, who
must then be present for further operations on the ship.”

As if in confirmation of his words, the pucker writhed shut
with a nasty eructation. Eusabian stared at the ship, then stepped forward. The
pucker opened. He stepped back behind the line again, and the pucker closed.
The Avatar contemplated the Urian vessel.

“If it were launched, where would it go?” Anaris asked,
sounding amused. “Another Suneater, do you suppose?”

Eusabian glanced across the intervening space at him and
smiled coldly. “When I have dealt with the Panarchy, an experiment will be
arranged.” Then the Avatar gestured to Lysanter. “It is well. You will
continue.” The Ogres whirred to life and followed him as he departed, Barrodagh
glancing back in terror and resentment.

As the amplified whine-thump died away, Anaris looked at the
ship and said, “I would not recommend summoning the Avatar for experiments on
this ship. It would best remain undisturbed, I think.”

Lysanter bowed again, keeping his gaze on his shoes as he
listened to the leisurely tread of the heir moving away. Morrighon followed,
not looking back.

The scientist let his breath out in a long sigh, rolling his
head on his neck. He looked over at the next-ripest ship, mentally rearranging
his day so that he could imprint it and all others, as he had the first ones.
Then he glanced thoughtfully at the adit mound. The strange conditions deep in
the well might be preferable to being caught between Anaris and Eusabian.

Lysanter shuddered, hoping he would never be brought to make
that choice, as in the corridor outside the bay, Barrodagh struggled to keep up
with Eusabian’s long strides, his fear of the Ogres warring with the greater
fear of being left behind in the nightmarish red-glowing tunnels.

The Avatar marched on, lengthening his strides. Barrodagh
gritted his teeth, ignoring the ache in his cheek and jaw as he toiled to keep
up. He knew that his lord had been annoyed at the heir’s appearance in the ship
bay, an emotion intensified by the exchanges after, but he did not as yet know
how much—or what would be the results.

It was no longer possible to predict what Eusabian would say
or do. Despite Barrodagh’s unremitting efforts, his control seemed to be
unraveling: over the Avatar, who had the Ogres and his narks and whatever programs
Lysanter had given him; over dataspace, despite the excellent programs that
Ferrasin obediently supplied from Arthelion. It was as if the computer had
taken the Avatar for a model and evaded monitoring—

Eusabian stopped at an intersection. Ahead, down one tunnel,
Barrodagh glimpsed cables and natural lighting and the smoothness vouchsafed by
stasis clamps. One longing glance, then he turned his back. He dare not show
his desire to be gone from this area, for who knew what the Avatar might find
amusing to do? He was no longer predictable in any useful sense, as though his
growing power was estranging him from merely human motivations.

But Eusabian waved a hand in casual dismissal of the Tarkan
squad, and then he looked down at Barrodagh. “You will return to your duties.”
He entered an adjacent tunnel, one still in its original state. The thud of the
Tarkans’ boots didn’t quite mask the loud whine-thump of the Ogres.

Barrodagh scrambled to follow the Tarkans, hoping their
presence would protect him as he considered the Avatar’s brief words. It could
have been worse, he decided. The implication that his duties needed returning
to—that he had left something undone—was an ungentle reminder of Eusabian’s
irritation at the lack of warning that the heir had appeared at the bay first.

Breathing through his mouth, his clothing clammy with sweat,
Barrodagh raced up the tunnel after the Tarkans, feeling a slight sense of
relief when they turned onto a more civilized and well-traveled concourse. He
slowed when he’d reached the safety of busy techs and minions. From some of the
latter he forcibly commandeered a runabout, and returned in somewhat more
comfort to his quarters, where he tabbed up the most urgent of the reports and
feeds queued up during his absence.

Anger twinged his aching cheek as the image of Lysanter
windowed up, the ship bay out of focus in the background.

“Serach Barrodagh, I am unsure why I was not informed of the
device possessed by the Rifter chaka-Jalashalal, which is obviously of Urian
origin, but I suppose your manifold other duties might have distracted you . . .”

Barrodagh clenched his teeth, intensifying the ever-present deep
ache. The time stamp on the message indicated it had been sent moments after
he’d left the ship bay with Eusabian. It was obviously composed to preempt his
questions about Anaris’s early appearance there.

Barrodagh shook his head irritably as Lysanter finished his
polite but firm demand for the remaining part of the shestek for
experimentation. Hreem would be furious, and bored, and thus even less
controllable. Perhaps it was time to turn him loose.

But there was no reason to comply quickly with Lysanter’s
request, not until he had a better idea of what Morrighon was up to, for it
could be no one else who had given Lysanter the vid of Hreem’s disgusting
pastime.

Barrodagh dictated a quick, temporizing reply to Lysanter
and went to the next message. More whining from Corianor about the danger of
the corridors. Barrodagh didn’t bother with a reply; the other should have thought
of that before he started his attempts at winning the favor of the grays by
harvesting and trading work counters for Ur-fruit.
Now I get the benefits while he suffers the danger.

The smile this thought engendered faded as Barrodagh went
through the rest of his messages, unable to rid himself of the nagging urgency
that there was still something he’d missed. He scanned the critical data and
gnawed absently at a knuckle when he saw that Ferrasin’s latest worms had again
been blocked—even worse, there were apparently more areas of dataspace now
mysteriously inaccessible, and he could not track whoever was doing the
blocking.

Barrodagh remembered a search he’d initiated earlier. He
tabbed it up, sending it as usual through decryption and printing and then destruction.

The flimsies spat out onto the welter of papers already
littering the desk, and he pounced on them, reading fast, then he sat back and
drew a deep breath.

All right, he now had proof—of a sort—that someone had
tampered with the spy-sensor in the Rifter crew’s quarters. Probably
Tatriman—on Morrighon’s orders. He ground his teeth, ignoring the flashes of
pain in his jaw, as he scanned for word groupings based on what Marim had let
fall during chat in the rec room. “Vi’ya said . . .” “Jaim said . . .” “You
know, we were just talking about that, and . . .” Yet there was no evidence of
any such conversations on the recordings from the crew cabin. Unless Marim was
lying—which was also a possibility.

Barrodagh leaned back, considering how to get more data from
her. He had to find someone to get her talking more indiscriminately.

The rest of the crew was worthless, and there was no one
else—except Hreem. Yes, it was indeed time to let Hreem out and about. He was
purportedly their enemy, though—being Rifters—they were as likely to ally as to
betray each other, depending on which course held out the greater prospect of
profit.

Why would he set Hreem free? There had to be a reason, of
course, and one that had nothing to do with the real reason. The Ogres were the
obvious one: Eusabian was pleased, and therefore some measure of freedom would
be granted the man who had brought them from Barca.
And letting him roam free will blunt Hreem’s anger when Lysanter takes
his shestek away, and underscore in his mind his sense of safety with respect
to Riolo and the Ogre traps.
Hreem must not get any hint of Riolo’s
double-dealing.

Barrodagh laughed as he reached for his comm.

o0o

Hreem palmed the door control, wincing at the sound the
chatzing thing made when it opened. It reminded him of his night’s sleep—or
what passed for a night’s sleep in this blungehole. He’d tried to turn the
light out, but after four or five times it glowed back on, each time more
reddish than before. Then there was that logos-loving wall behind his bed,
puckering and making weird sucking noises.
Kissing
noises. At least he had a dyplast shield over the bed now, so he didn’t have to
worry about anything awful falling on him.

Finally he sat up in bed and yelled, “Dead or not, Norio, if
I get hold of you you’ll wish you’d never heard of this Telos-chatzing
Suneater!”

The wall had given one extra ripe, juicy scroinch, but Hreem
turned his head in the other direction, ignoring it. He was no longer afraid;
angry, yes, but if he hadn’t been so bored and tired he’d have wanted to laugh.

After a short time the noises went away, and so did the
light. He’d slept then.

And now, for the first time since he’d come to this
chatz-forsaken blunge-pit, he was being permitted to leave that room and do
some exploring. Not that he expected a station full of Dol’jharians and their
minions to be much excitement. But anything was better than those weird walls.

He stepped out into the tunnel and looked down its ovoid
length, curving like the insides of some huge beast. Disgusting place—how could
these ice-nackered Dol’jharians stand it?

A couple of techs in gray overalls crossed an intersection.

“Hey,” he called. “Where’s the rec room?”

They both looked back at him, then went on.

“Chatzing blunge-suckers,” Hreem said loudly, but they did
not react.
Because no one speaks Uni except
for Barrodagh, damn it.

Barrodagh—and Riolo and Vi’ya and her crew.

At the thought of the black-eyed woman, his heart thumped
faster, but he reassured himself with a reminder of Riolo’s promises. And he
figured Barrodagh probably had plans in place as well.
He’s probably more afraid of her than even Norio was,
Hreem thought
grimly.
Which is why I’m still here. When
she’s done with whatever they brought her for, if the Tarkans and the Ogres
don’t get her, he knows I will.

A pale-faced Bori tech ran down a side adit. “You! Come
here!” Hreem yelled in Uni.

The Bori slowed. “Don’t impede me,” he began. At least he
spoke Uni.

“Just want to know where the rec room is,” Hreem said.

“Follow.” The Bori ran off. Hreem lengthened his strides and
was soon brought before a big door that was held open all the time. Outside of
it stood an Ogre, huge and forbidding even deactivated. Hreem watched his Bori
guide give it one cringing look before he scuttled away.

Ogres finally emplaced. Hreem grinned as he sauntered past.
He knew what had taken so long. Lysanter must have tried every test known to
Panarchists and Dol’jharians in order to find out if the Ogres had been
booby-trapped, but the Barcans had obviously outsmarted him. Hreem had gambled
on this. He knew if they’d found them, he might have faced the mindripper, but
he’d trusted Riolo, at least as far as hiding the traps went. Riolo had his own
plans, which so far meant cooperating with Hreem.

So far. Hreem remembered that moment on the shuttle when
Riolo had revealed he understood Dol’jharian. Somehow that fact had never come
out during the time Riolo had crewed on the Lith.

He scanned the rec room. Dol’jharians at one side ignored
him after one cursory look; glances from the Bori on the other were more
lingering, most of them apprehensive. Hreem enjoyed that. He liked people to be
afraid of him. Put things on the proper footing right away, got business done
faster.

But what would he do with a lot of blunge-eating Bori,
afraid or not? Stepping further inside, he noticed one table had the biggest
crowd. Mostly Bori, but two Dol’jharian menials stood there, towering over the
rest, watching.

Hreem threaded his way toward that table and saw in the
midst of the dark heads one with yellow curls.

“Heyo, you vacuumskulls!” a fluting voice laughed—in Uni.

Another Rifter! Had to be. One of Vi’ya’s crew.

Shoving a couple of Bori out of his way, Hreem walked up and
stood right across from her. She looked up; short, sharp face, tight clothes on
a very nice body. Blue eyes raked him down slowly, then she leaned back in her
pod, crossing her arms.

“Why, if it isn’t the Panarch of puke-wits,” she said,
somehow managing to sound cheerful and sneering at the same time.

Hreem shoved a Bori off a pod and sat down. “What game you
running, crotch-lips?”

“Phalanx. L-2 for the toothless, L-3 for them who like a
little fun.”

Hreem snorted. It had been years since he’d bothered with
computer games—why, when you could shoot real ships whenever you wanted? But
he’d been good once, long before he became a captain, and it would be fun to
tromp this mouthy little blit and make her squirm. “L-3 it is,” he said. “Stop
yakkin’ and call it up. I’ll watch,” he added, certain the implication she
cheated would annoy her further and thus make her play more poorly.

But she just laughed. “Ram it up your blunge-hole, Hreem.”

He had to laugh as well. He never would have tolerated this
kind of backchat on his ship, but now he was enjoying it. He missed the wild
anarchy of Rifthaven, the rowdy give-and-take of interactions there. Being shut
up among these dour, puritanical Dol’jharians was giving him the jonahs and he
hadn’t even felt it hitting him.