Diadem from the Stars

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Diadem from the Stars

Jo Clayton

A BEGINNING:

The Loosing of the Diadem

The thief walked through rolls of milky fog, advancing warily to the base of a wall that rose until the fog swallowed it; his chameleon-web bodysuit mocked the opaline mist until he was a pale shade in the shadows. He touched his belt and a circle of light sprang into being under his feet. Another touch. Like a soap bubble he drifted silently up along the flickering force-fields surfacing the wall with the fog ceiling retreating above his head and closing in again under his feet as he slid silently upward. Muffled sounds, broken and anonymous, slipped past him, too natural and arrhythmic to trigger taut nerves.

The wall broke suddenly into a wide plane-surfaced top, but he kept rising until his feet were a handspan above the edge, then he touched the belt again and began drifting sideways, smooth and silent in his milky room of fog … one meter … two … touch the belt … down sliding in a long slow slant toward the unseen ground.…

Gliding over the soaked, crumbling earth, feet a handspan from contact, body bent tensely forward … the circle of light flickered, faltered, and the thief's breath rasped hoarsely. Using the last moments of stability he plunged forward.…

The black stone rasped faintly under his toes. For a minute he stood perfectly still, eyes closed, forcing his clamoring body into a more responsive quiet. Stripping the glove from his right hand he pressed a palely glowing ring against the lock sensor and waited for the massive door to slide aside.

The solid blackness vibrated, swaying snakelike black on black, strangely perceived. His shadow-figure crept snake slow, twisting, turning, cutting back on his own tracks, bodysuit blending black on black, narrow ice-blue eyes glinting winter-cold in the odd nonlight dripping through the thick greasy air. On the groping hand stretched out in the murk before him, on the middle finger, the ringstone glowed fire-green—flickering, innocent, lovely, and deceptive—not simply decoration but a key and a map, Ariadne's thread to the RMoahl maze … a key bought at the cost of two years' cunning and five men's lives.

The ring flared blue. The thief froze.

After a minute he thrust his hand into the pouch dangling invisibly from his belt and pulled out four suction cups, which he strapped to hands and feet. With a sinuous splayed-out leap, he threw himself high up against the wall, slapping the cups hard against the glassy surface. Armstretch by armstretch, clinging, swinging, aching muscles trembling, he inched along fifty feet of stinking wall.

The huge domed room caught up and magnified the tiny sounds he made as he strode—long legs scissoring nervously fast, excitement heating his blood—toward the crystal dome housing the diadem. Plunder from a hundred suns lay heaped in glowing piles on either side of carpeted aisles crossing and recrossing the vast ellipse. A fugitive glitter sparked in the corners of his eyes … silken sheens, rich colors glowing … his eyes fixed on that solitary dome at the very center. Inside, the diadem lay curled in delicate modesty. Breath bitten behind his teeth, the thief half ran across the crowded room.

He stood in front of the arching crystal and stared at the thing inside. Pale gold metallic threads spun into flower forms curving around pulsing red, purple, blue, green, and deep orange gems … like a garland of golden lilies they shimmered with a rich seductive glow. He lifted the glass bell with exaggerated care and set it gently on the floor. With his breath coming faster and tight off the top of his lungs, he lifted the diadem, touching the exquisite thing gently, care fully, fingertips only, even though ten thousand years of legend testified to the indestructibility of those hair-fine threads.

As he held the diadem it sang to him in a faint ripple of single pure notes. He stroked his hand across the flowers, the agonizing beauty of the notes that answered his touch curling around his mind until, half tranced, he almost settled it on his own head. He wrenched his numbed brain free and hastily folded the supple circlet and shoved it in the special insulated pouch hanging on his belt.…

The light winds curled and spit around him, slamming his tiny stingship end over end. He took a deep breath and slowed his body down, relaxing the tension that was bouncing him against the crash-web with bruising force. Behind him the stink of the laboring computer mixed with small metallic creaks of overburdened metal … ahead, the screen howled with savage colors, a fantastic whirl, demon-haunted, three suns revolving about a common center of gravity passing hydrogen from one to the other in ragged golden rivers, the fields of forces battling there twisting and distorting even the tough fabric of space itself.

The black midge danced and fluttered, edging along, pushed to the limit of its very special capabilities.

Pain sat at the base of his spine like a spiked pillow. Sounds beat in his ears and scratched at his brain, aborting his spasmodic attempts to pull his mind together. He clung to consciousness with a determination dredged from the marrow of his bones, yelling a long, soundless scream to dominate the pain and noise inside his ballooning skull.

Faster and faster they spun, man and ship. The air around him grew thick with the effluents of strain … the argrav console whined and shuddered … points of electric-blue fire danced among the circuits … the violent hungry forces swirling around the suns battered and wrenched at the tough metal splinter. Suddenly the ship lurched sideways, plunging down and around into a wild corkscrewing tumble. The overworked crash-web popped loose, banging his jaw against the support bar. His eyes glazed over and a trickle of blood oozed out the corner of his mouth.…

A long satin slide into a pool of calm … the stingship purred along at cruise speed, spit out like a plum seed from around the edge of the bronze-green sun. With clumsy fingers the thief tripped the lock bars and let the crash-web flip to rest. Hands on armrests, he pushed himself painfully upright, the pressure couch following the movements of his body. He rubbed his hands together, smiling, bruised but intact, though the ship had been driven far beyond her remarkable capacity.

In front of him the console breathed scattered spurts of blue and stinking smoke. When he frowned and ran his fingers over the board, the ship responded sluggishly. Currents of air tugged by uneven gravity flows carried the blue smoke in stinging tatters around his face. Coughing and sputtering he rubbed his running nose and screwed up his aching eyes.

“Luv!”

“Yes, Stavver?” The computer's soft contralto voice sounded a little ragged around the edges.

“Scrub this air, will you. Can't see a thing.”

“Stavver, I'm badly damaged. I'll try.…” A sharp screech stabbed at his eardrums. “Pardon me,” she said hastily, the human qualities of the voice eroding under the strain of her injuries.

Stavver chuckled. He thought,
Trust Luv to maintain the proprieties.
He peered into the flickering screen, which showed the triple sun ebbing swiftly behind. Bending tautly forward he scanned the image with haunted care. The irritating blips that had dogged his trail since he'd left the RMoahl world two days before were gone, all five of them. Sighing, he leaned back, feeling the soreness of his body all the more since the tension supporting him was sliding away. “No hurry, Luv. We lost them.”

The air began to clear. Stavver looked around and grimaced at the mess in his polished bridge. “The rest of the ship like this, Luv?”

“Worse.” The voice sounded steadier. “Dirt, stink everywhere. A slum.” The sourceless voice sounded gloomy and rather prim, like an old woman whose dog had an accident in the middle of her best rug. “The generators are in deplorable condition.” For the hundredth time he wondered what the long-dead builders who'd constructed and programmed the computer were like and why they'd given it such a prim and proper personality. He laughed. “Check it out, Luv, and let me know the worst. I think we'll find a place to set down for a rest.”

“Stavver, if you'd stop getting us into these messes, I could keep my decks clean.”

He grinned. “Now, Luv, if I retired, you'd sit in a field and rust.” He could almost hear the computer sniff, then, with a sigh, he stretched out cramped muscles and rubbed tired gritty eyes.

“Stavver!” The calm voice escalated to a shriek. “Three follow!”

“Wha—” The thief jerked up, wincing at the ache in his head. Blinking to clear his vision, he peered into the screen. Three small black blips shimmered against the glowing hydrogen. “How?” he whispered. “They couldn't track us. Not through that mess.” He looked again. “Three. At least we lost two of them.” A minute later—“Two of those … look, Luv. Am I dreaming or—”

“Two drop away.” The computer sounded rather complacent, as if she were preening imaginary feathers. “We've beaten four.”

“You're a good girl, Luv. Now if we can just shake the one … You're sure it's RMoahl?”

“A RMoahl hound.”

“How the hell do they do it …?” He shook his head, then tried to think. “We better get lost fast. Luv!”

“Yes, Stavver?”

“Evasive action right now. Then head for … mmm … Drex. Let me get lost in the Exsashi and—”

A pained silence.

“Luv?”

“Stavver …” The voice croaked and cracked, then sputtered to a shrill hiss.

“Luv!”

“Warning. Warning. Warning.” The personality was leached out of the warm voice until it was a thin thread of sound half drowned in a sudden spate of sharp crackles and snaps. “Breakup.”

“How long?” he demanded.

“Insufficient data.” The voice faded, strengthened, faded again.

“Drex?”

“Too-oo faaaa-aar.”