A Covenant of Justice (21 page)

“You said three hundred thousand before—!”

“You don't think I give my medical services away for free, do you? Finn's treatment will cost you heavily—even with your usual courtesy discount.”

Sawyer followed M'bele over to his work station. “What courtesy discount?” he demanded. “You haven't shown us any courtesy at all. You never do.”

“I didn't kill you on sight, did I?” M'bele tapped in his password and authorized the A.I. engine to begin the transmutation of Finn Markham.

“Hah? You call
that
courtesy?”

“Hell, in this neighborhood, Sawyer, most people would call that ‘downright affectionate.'” He stepped away from the console. “There,” he said. “We've made the commitment. Now . . . we wait.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as it takes. Until he dies—or until he gets up from that table and punches you in the face.”

“I wouldn't mind that,” Sawyer said. He crossed to the table and put his hand on Finn's cold arm. “At least, he'd do it out of love—”

After two days had passed, Finn's condition remained unimproved. Despite M'bele's constant attention and repeated treatments in which his blood flowed through Zillabar's liver and then back again, the tracker's condition stayed the same. M'bele looked sleepless and frustrated. He even admitted aloud how mystified he felt. “I don't know,” he said. “It should have worked by now. Maybe Finn's condition had deteriorated worse than we realized. Maybe I've done something wrong. I don't know what else to do.”

Sawyer had to remind the dark man of his own instructions. “Remember? You said we had to wait—until he dies, or until he gets up off the table. Let's just wait.”

“That presents a problem. We can't stay here much longer,” M'bele said. “The Dragons will find us if we do. They have some very sophisticated equipment for searching the jungle. I'd rather move him now than later.”

Three-Dollar spoke up then. “We should decamp then. Besides, Sawyer has a debt to pay and you don't need his assistance. I do.” To the tracker, he said, “We must locate the TimeBand. Prove to me that you have the tracking skills you claim. Find the missing TimeBand. Take Lee with you. If you get to StarPort, ask an Informant. The rebellion uses Informants a lot. I'll give you my passwords.”

“I don't want to leave Finn.”

“You can't help him by standing around. You can help all of us—including yourself—by finding that missing TimeBand.”

Sawyer started to shake his head, but M'bele grabbed his arm. “Listen. We have to assume that you've already compromised this treehouse—”

“I promise you, we didn't.”

“Do you want to bet Finn's life on it?”

Sawyer hesitated. “All right. I see your point.”

“Thank you. Now listen up. I've got robots to move my equipment; the poppet can carry the rest of us to a more secure location; and I'll have the spider-things restring the railroad. Don't worry, this will work. I've always followed the teachings of Saint Rah.”

“Eh?”

“Keep prepared to move fast—you'll have to at least three times in your life.” M'bele turned to Lee and Three-Dollar. “Get Finn back into that medical casket, and put him on maintenance. Use the program in the red work station. I'll get Nyota dressed. Sawyer, you and Lee should leave immediately. The spider-things will take you back to the wart if you want to recall your sled. Otherwise, they can take you almost anywhere else in the forest. You have no idea how widely the railroad reaches.”

“Let me say goodbye to Finn, first.”

“You say more goodbyes than anybody I know, Sawyer,” grumbled Lee.

“I've never lost a brother before,” Sawyer snapped right back. “Forgive me if I don't know how to do it right.”

Sawyer's words struck home. Lee had lost over 2000 brothers. His expression crumpled. “I apologize, tracker. Your loss may not have the same weight of numbers as mine, but the pain of it must feel every bit as large to you. I lost all of my family; you risk losing all of yours. In that, we share the same experience. You have my sympathies.”

“Thanks,” grunted Sawyer. “Maybe we can both learn from each other.” He crossed to the medical cabinet again and spoke softly to his unconscious big brother. “Listen, big bro', I know you can hear me. Get up off your lazy butt and help me, will you? I signed a contract and I can't do it alone.” He gave Finn a soft, affectionate punch on the arm and added very softly, “Besides . . . I love you.” Then he walked up out the tunnel after Lee.

M'bele watched them go with a sad expression on his face. He bent close to Finn and began whispering in the big man's ear. “Listen to me, you big stupid meatball. Listen up and listen good—I know you can hear me. You have to get off this table and you'd better do it damn quick, so you can start paying me what you owe me.”

Now M'bele's voice became even more intense. “Do you think Sawyer will survive on his own? Do you think he can make it yet without you? If you die, your little brother will probably follow right behind you knocking on the gates of Hell. That fool will do something to get himself killed damn quick without you around. Do you want that to happen? I don't think you do.

“So pay attention, and I'll tell you what you have to do. Get your flame-thrower. You know the one, I mean. Yeah, you got it. Get your flame-thrower. Unlock the safeties. Arm that sucker. Now I want you to start in your left arm and work your way through every vein and artery of your body, torching the virus wherever you find it, blasting away the enzymes. Just clean out everything that doesn't have your name stenciled on the ID plate. Up and down the arteries, Finn, in and out of all the veins. Don't forget to clean behind your capillaries. Get in there and scourge the bloodstream. Yeah, I know that you don't like hard work, but this work satisfies you. The more you do it, the better it feels. Good, good—keep it up, Finn—”

The big man on the table hadn't moved at all, but M'bele paid it no mind. He spoke to Finn Markham as if coaching an athlete on the field. He gave him detailed instructions, a roadmap to every part of his body. He detailed the trip and he told Finn where to go and what to do to burn out the invading phages. “You know how to do this, Finn—I've given you the Vampire weapon. Use it. And don't worry about running out of fuel. Use your anger. Your anger will keep you going forever. Your anger will make you invincible in this battle. Keep it up, Finn, keep it up.”

When he finally straightened and turned around, he realized that William Three-Dollar, the TimeBinder, stood directly behind him, watching him curiously.

M'bele shrugged. “I'll use whatever I need to use. Even sympathetic magic. I'll use every goddamn brand of medicine I have. If I have to rattle beads and feathers over him and dance around a bonfire stark naked while chanting prayers to the great god Ghu, I'll do it. I'll find something that'll work . . . unless this bastard really does want to die.”

After two days of full self-expression, most of the Dragon Lord's anger had finally begun to subside along with the related death tolls. While his rage had created no small amount of consternation among those who served him, it also served to inspire his (surviving) troops to an extraordinary level of diligence. And as an ancillary benefit, cooperation among the local authorities as well as among the native civilian population increased dramatically.

Nevertheless, Zillabar's whereabouts still remained unknown.

The discovery of the landing boat at Little Crater Wreak had at least provided some clue as to where the kidnappers might have taken Zillabar. Assuming the kidnappers had used the shuttle's antigrav sled for their escape, they could not have gone more than fifteen hundred klicks in any direction from Little Crater Wreak. South of the Wreak lay only desert; north and west, the blacktree forest sprawled across the planet's equator.

The Dragon Lord paced around his quarters for a bit, thinking this out. He did not think they would have gone the full range of the sled. Probably they had landed somewhere within the fifteen hundred kilometer radius. He studied the wall-sized map. A scattering of small settlements lay haphazardly across the southern plains, none of them large enough to present a serious candidate for inspection, but—he didn't dare overlook any possibility. He wondered about that. Perhaps the rebellion had somehow established a base in some tunnel complex.

No. He didn't see how they could have constructed anything bigger than a pig-wallow without the Regency's satellite scanners noticing the ground activity. Still . . . the conditions at most of those outposts remained so primitive that they seemed the last place anyone would look. Therefore, he'd have to spend valuable time and resources on a full search of each and every encampment out there—seventeen villages and one hundred and twenty-three individual farms. How many more of those stupid humans would his men have to kill? He didn't mind the killing, of course, but the Vampires might find it politically difficult. Hmm. In that case, he might just as well have them all killed and claim that the Vampires gave the orders. The thought made him smile—every death makes some carrion-feeder happy, and many deaths makes a Dragon Lord ecstatic.

He grunted in satisfaction and turned his attention to the blacktree sprawl.

His hunting instinct told him that the jungle represented an impenetrable problem—not just for the hunter, but for the prey as well. He studied the display without expression, seeking out features within the great dark mass. If the rebels had headed simply for a set of coordinates in the forest, then the Dragon Guard would have to search every kilometer of jungle, scanning for anomalies.

On the other hand, if they had headed toward some landmark . . . then his troops could focus their search on high probability areas. Unfortunately, the blacktree forest contained very few landmarks, just a scattering of warts, a few lakes, and not much else. Even the widest rivers remained hidden beneath the pervasive blue canopy of the trees.

The warts.

The Dragon Lord extended one long claw and touched the dimensional representation of a small towering monolith. Within the range of the sled, only seven warts stood out, and four of them lay at the far northwestern edge of the sky-sled's range. While he wouldn't rule those out, most likely, the sled would have headed toward one of the other three, all of which stood significantly closer to Little Crater Wreak.

Hmm.

How far from a wart could a human travel?

He expanded the image of the warts and studied them thoughtfully.

The warts provided access to the jungle canopy. From there . . . the Dragon Lord had the intelligence to recognize that he could not make any estimation at all of what might lay beneath the trees. Nevertheless, he could arrange for squads of Raptors to visit each of the warts and explore them thoroughly. If they found evidence of a landing, they would have a new center for their search.

Yes. He turned away from the map and began hissing orders. His aides scurried to obey. He smiled inwardly. He rather enjoyed the increase in efficiency that occurred every time he allowed the free expression of his rage. He'd have to do it more often—if he could figure out a way to keep the casualty rate at a sustainable level. That might require some thought.

In the meantime, he hoped that the rebels had provided the Lady Zillabar with a perfectly dreadful time. It didn't matter to him. She deserved it. She'd earned it fairly. And whatever political realignment eventually came of this event, the Dragons would benefit either way. Whether required to extract revenge on the perpetrators or to provide increased security for a host of fearful Vampires, the Dragons would still end up holding more power in the Regency than ever before. The Dragon Lord had actually begun to appreciate the opportunities provided by this rebellion. He wondered how long he could keep his troops from locating her. . . .

A small red lizard came scampering into the room excitedly. It saluted, bowed, and flung itself to the floor at the Dragon Lord's feet. “I have great news, your excellency. This will please you immensely!”

“Someone has found Zillabar?” He tried to hide his displeasure.

“No, sir. Even better than that! We've found a large cache of pfingle eggs in a warehouse at the northern StarPort. You will want to inspect them immediately, won't you, sir?”

“Why, yes . . . I will. What a thoughtful gesture. Lead me to this bounty immediately—”

Under cover of dawn, M'bele's antigrav sled came out of the forest and onto the open plains below the northern slopes of Mount Whillma, a long-dormant volcano whose tinder cone reached high enough into the sky to wear a mantle of white snow all year round.

Sawyer Markham and Lee-1169 drove the airboat around the southern foothills of the volcano and finally headed up into a river-carved canyon toward a distinctive rocky bluff called the Devil's Penis. From there, they abandoned the course of the river and struck out westward, rollercoastering over a series of jagged escarpments that thrust upward like knife blades. Finally, they dove down into the steepest of canyons and followed south along its narrow zigzag course until its red walls fell away to either side and it opened onto the empty marshlands on the northern edge of the Krislov Gulf.

Avoiding the open water—antigrav fields dissipate badly over large bodies of water—they turned west again until they came to the Devil's
Other
Penis, striking upward from a rocky patch at the southernmost edge of a small blacktree tangle. From here, they headed northwest until they came to the Somewhere River, a great muddy sluice of water, wide, sluggish, and brown. They followed the river northward, up into the rolling plains of the Northern Wasteland. When they came to the shallow delta where Twisted River fed into Somewhere, they veered off in a northeastern direction and followed Twisted River all the way up into Twisted River Canyon at the base of the Great Stone Glacier, a black basaltic outcropping that stretched northward for several hundred kilometers.