A Covenant of Justice (20 page)

Neena Linn-Campbell didn't even blink. She nodded to Gito, who grabbed her by the ankles and lifted her up to stand on his shoulders. She reached across the desk, grabbed the Assistant Executive Aide to the Office of the Senior Secretary to the Vice-Adjutant by the neck chains and yanked him forward—
hard
—shoving the barrel of her needle gun firmly up his left nostril.

She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Now, tell it to me again, this time face-to-face. We must have had a faulty communication channel, because it sounded like you said that no cargo could leave this planet until the Dragon Lord had inspected it.”

“
Fnrkle
,” replied the Assistant Executive Aide to the Office of the Senior Secretary to the Vice-Adjutant of the Burihatin-14 StarPort.

“I didn't understand that,” said Star-Captain Campbell. “It sounded like you said ‘
fnrkle
' this time.” She nodded to Ota, and the Lix-class bioform carefully placed the entire sheaf of documents and clearances on the desk of the Assistant Executive Aide to the Office of the Senior Secretary to the Vice-Adjutant where he could just barely see it over the end of Captain Campbell's needle-gun.

“
G'flrkn'igl
,” he said.

“I see,” said Captain Campbell. “So may I assume then that you spoke in error before?” She shoved the weapon farther up the man's left nostril, heedless to the high cost of reconstructive surgery here in Dupa's outerland.

The man held his delicately manicured hands high in the air, helpless. He couldn't nod, he couldn't speak, and he couldn't even successfully faint.

“I need you to stamp these papers,” Linn-Campbell said.

“
Gnrsh
.”

“I didn't understand you clearly. Did you say ‘yes-
gnrsh
' or ‘no-
gnrsh
?' Think clearly before you speak. A great deal depends on your answer—”

At that moment, a door in the back wall of the office dilated open, and a short, round man, with a much less flamboyant appearance, came waddling out, beaming and bustling with an air of enthusiasm and efficiency. “Neena,” he called, jovially. “It delights me to see you again. As always, you look beautiful. Please do come into my office and let me offer you some chocolate.” He glanced at the man behind the desk and remarked, “Goodness, that looks uncomfortable. Fergle, do take that stupid thing out of your nose before you hurt yourself. Neena, come in, come in.”

“It thrills me to see you again too, Puckie,” Campbell muttered, reholstering her weapon. Gito lowered her to the ground, and the whole party followed her into the round man's office.

“All right,” she said. “How long? Three days? Five?”

Puckie held up his hands. “Let's attend to first things first. Oh—and in the future, please have a little more care how you treat my associates. Fnorley has only just joined this division and has very little experience with methods as direct as yours.” He added politely, “Do you want cream or butter in your chocolate?”

“Save the chocolate. It makes Ota's face break out. And besides, I know where you get your syrup. I wouldn't drink that crap if you promised me immortality. It took me a year to get the taste out of my mind last time. Why don't you let me supply you?”

“Ah, would that I could—?” Puckie said, spreading his hands wide. “But the aristocracy controls the trade of luxury beans—as they control everything around here. All right, at least I've tried to put on the appearance of manners. Someday you'll surprise me and respond with courtesy and I'll drop dead of a heart attack.”

“Let's hope that such an event occurs soon, Puckie. Perhaps your successor will realize that the commerce of this port sustains the economy of this world. I have pfingle eggs in a warehouse here, getting older by the minute.”

Puckie held up a hand. “I wish I could step outside this minute and watch you and your ship ascend into the sky—never to return. You always bring me more problems than you resolve. But this time, dear lady, I believe that neither of us can resolve this particular dilemma. The Dragon Lord has instructed my superiors that he will scourge this StarPort if he has to—and he will certainly do it if we disregard his instructions to lock everything down. Dupa remains under a complete state of emergency. Surely, you've heard what's happened?”

“The problems of Vampires don't concern me,” Neena Linn-Campbell said. She knew what events Puckie referred to—the kidnapping of Zillabar—and furthermore, she had enjoyed hearing not only the news of the Vampire Queen's disgrace, but also all the additional salacious gossip circulating through the undergrowth of rumor and innuendo, with much more enthusiasm than considered appropriate for an officer of her rank. To say that Captain Campbell despised the Lady Zillabar would demonstrate an insufficiency of language comparable to calling the Dragon Lord's breath as foul-smelling.

“Actually,” corrected Puckie. “The problems of Vampires do concern you. Until the Dragon Lord locates the Lady Zillabar, no ship will leave this field. If any ship attempts to flee the port, he'll have it blasted from the sky. You may, if you wish, choose to ignore this warning, and I will regretfully place roses on your grave—assuming that we can find any pieces of you big enough to bury. I would not recommend that you try.” He extended his hand graciously. Captain Campbell did not take it. “In the meantime, I suggest that you enjoy the sights of Dupa. I know of many fascinating tours—up the Yangle river, perhaps, to see the flowering islands; or maybe you would appreciate two weeks of touring the blacktrees on the back of a trained fawn, always an exciting journey; but I think you should try my personal favorite, an excursion to Dupa's Warts—”

“Fold it, Puckie,” Captain Campbell said. “Who do I see about getting an exception? And how large a bribe will I need to offer?”

“You'd have to see the Dragon Lord,” Puckie replied blandly. “But the last three freebooters who tried . . . the Dragon Lord ate them.” His expression darkened in regret. “Perhaps if you had a Regency Crest or a Spacer's Guild Insignia, he might consider advancing the date of inspection for your vessel, but I doubt that—”

Puckie should have known better than to suggest this latter course. After all, he had known Neena Linn-Campbell long enough to have a clear sense of her behavior. Indeed, he had even provided assistance to her during the notorious brinewood affair.
⁶

Fortunately, Ota and Gito and Harry Mertz finally proved able to pull a furious Captain Campbell off of his throat and out of his office before she inflicted injuries on the hapless little man severe enough to require serious medical attention and a federal warrant for her arrest.

“If you need anything else . . .” he managed to gasp, but the door had already dilated shut after them. Puckie rubbed his throat painfully and considered taking an early retirement. This job no longer provided as much fun as he had originally believed it would.

Warrior Lizards of all castes had spread out across the surface of Dupa. They ranged from the ice caverns of the storm-wracked poles, to the rocky headlands, where the basalt underpinnings broke through the granite crusts of the continents. They prowled the desert tundra and made desperate feints into the towering blacktrees. They probed the oceans with sonar bombs, biosearched the orbiting stations three times over, and even—despite their own better judgment—deep-scanned the acid tunnels of Salut Minoh.

On the third day of the search, one of the tunnels of Salut Minoh collapsed disastrously, triggering cave-ins throughout the historic complex of caverns. The unexpected series of implosions instantly killed a squad of twenty Black Destroyers and imprisoned another thirty more beyond any hope of rescue. Nevertheless, additional units rushed immediately to the area—not in any vain attempt to save their fallen comrades, but in a larger effort to determine if the Lady Zillabar's landing craft lay buried beneath the megatons of rock.

Unfortunately, for Sawyer's plan, one of the units heading toward the tunnel disaster accidentally drifted off course and flew directly over Little Crater Wreak, the smallest of three brine-filled dimples in the rocky desert south of the Lesser Blacktree Spiral. While the Dragons did not expect to find any evidence of the abandoned shuttleboat this far from any major blacktree spine, they had routinely left their scanning devices running. So when the main display beeped and registered a large unaccountable mass of alloyed metal, the pilot of the sky-sled decided to investigate. He swung the craft around for another pass over Little Crater Wreak.

Although he did not believe he the scanners had detected anything more unusual than a minor masscon anomaly, the pilot still felt that caution represented the better part of survival. This particular act of survival eventually gained him a bonus, a promotion, and a chance at the semiannual mating games.
⁷

Sawyer Markham had not expected the shuttleboat to remain undiscovered for long. Had he known how quickly the Dragons had located it—whether by luck or by intention—he would have felt extremely chagrined. However, his remorse would not have lasted long, because the next part of his plan went off exactly as he had expected. Both the shuttleboat and the craft attempting to lift it out of the briny Wreak exploded with a very satisfying flash and fury.

When the underlings finally dared to relay this news to the offices of the Dragon Lord, they discovered that the destruction of the landing craft and lifting sled had both occurred as the
smaller
explosions of the day. Fortunately, the bearers of this bad news retained enough presence of mind to send in their dispatches anonymously. Several of them actually survived the resultant pogrom.

M'bele brought Sawyer back to the chamber in the blacktree where Finn lay unconscious, still caught in a state of suspended metabolic processes. Sawyer started to go over to his brother, but M'bele held him back. “Wait,” he said. “I have to talk to you.”

“You can't help him,” Sawyer guessed. “Right?”

M'bele frowned. “If you already know what I have to say, then why should I bother saying it?”

“I apologize,” said Sawyer. “I'll shut up.” He shut.

“I think I may have something,” M'bele said. “It will require the transmutation of your brother's metabolism. The A.I. engine thinks this will work. All of the models that we've run show that it should work. But I have never placed my faith totally in models, because if you've accidentally left something out of the model, then it can't function as an accurate representation of the situation, can it? And the results that it predicts will have no relation to the problem you want to solve.”

“Would you translate that into my language, please?” Sawyer said drily.

“I have no way to test this,” M'bele said grimly. “I have no way to prove that this will work. I think it will work, but I can't guarantee it. If I've made a mistake in my thinking, it might very well kill him. You do realize that, don't you?”

Sawyer nodded. “We've always had that possibility hanging over our heads. If we don't try this, he'll die anyway.”

“Yes, but you need to understand something else. If he survives, he will probably begin demonstrating certain unsavory aspects of Phaestor behavior, especially in the area of diet. He may have cravings for certain foods—”

“He'll turn into a Vampire?”

“I don't know.” M'bele admitted. “Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe after he stabilizes, we can begin bringing him back. I have no idea.”

“So, I have to choose between death and Vampirism for Finn, right?”

M'bele nodded unhappily.

Sawyer felt his stomach knotting painfully. “Nothing you say offers me any certainty.” He glanced up at M'bele. “Would you use this treatment on your daughter?”

M'bele's eyes shaded with pain. “I would not have let my daughter live this long under such a death sentence. I would not have subjected her to the suffering that you have inflicted on Finn in your desperate attempts to save him. I hope he'll forgive you someday. The question here has nothing to do with me, Sawyer Markham, or with Nyota. It has to do with the life you want to return to Finn? Will he thank you for this life or curse you for it? Do you want to save him for himself, or for yourself? You regard his life as too precious to lose—but what do you think he would say if he could speak to you now? What would he choose for you if you lay on that table and he stood here? You need to put aside your own desperate hungers here.”

“You think I should let him die?”

“No. I didn't say that. If he survives, his blood may provide a universal serum for the blood-burn. If he survives, he could serve all humanity as a healer. But if he survives, his life may also have a disproportionate amount of pain and difficulty because of his condition.”

Sawyer hung his head. “Almost—I almost let him go. I almost came to the edge of the thought that I should release him peacefully. And then you said that last thing. About healing. And I realized that I have a larger duty that goes beyond just what happens to Finn and myself. You see . . .” Sawyer's voice caught as he admitted it; he found it embarrassing. “. . . I've made a new deal with Three-Dollar. I've . . . promised to serve the Alliance of Life. And because I made the deal on behalf of Finn and myself, I have to choose to return Finn to life.” He looked deep into M'bele's eyes. “So let's stop wasting time and do it.”

M'bele nodded in agreement. “Good. I thought you would see that possibility.” He grinned. “I hoped you would make that choice.”

“Really?”

M'bele grinned. “Of course. I want to see if this will actually work. And I'd rather have it fail on one of you two than on someone I really care about. You don't think I've spent all this time and effort because I like you two, do you? And besides, you now owe me five hundred thousand caseys. I have a better chance of collecting if Finn survives.”