Dragonsdawn (30 page)

“How much time do you have, Sallah?”

“I don’t know.” She could feel the blood reaching to her calf in the big boot, and her left glove was full. How much blood did a person have? She felt weak, too, and she was aware that it was getting harder to breathe. It was all of a piece. She would miss knowing Cara better.

“Sallah?” Ezra’s voice was very kind. “Sallah, talk to Tarvi. We can’t keep him out of here. He’s like a madman. He just wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, sure, fine. I want to talk to him,” she said, her voice sounding funny even to herself.

“Sallah!” Tarvi had managed to get his voice under control. “Get out of here, all of you! She’s mine now. Sallah, jewel in my night, my golden girl, my emerald-eyed ranee, why did I never tell you before how much you mean to me? I was too proud. I was too vain. But you taught me to love, taught me by your sacrifice when I was too engrossed in my other love—my worklove—to see the inestimable gift of your affection and kindness. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have failed to see that you were more than just a body to receive my seed, more than an ear to hear my ambitions, more than hands to—Sallah? Sallah! Answer me, Sallah!”

“You—loved—me?”

“I do love you, Sallah. I do! Sallah? Sallah!
Salllllaaaaah!”

“What do you think, Dieter?” Paul asked the programmer as he consulted the figures Ezra had given them.

“Well, this first lot of figures gives us over two thousand liters of fuel. The second is a guesstimate of how much Kenjo used on the four missions he flew and what was used by the
Mariposa
today. There’s a substantial quantity unused somewhere down here on the surface. The third set is evidently what was left in the
Yoko
’s tanks and is now in the
Mariposa
’s. But, I do point out, as Sallah does, that there’s enough in the
Yoko
’s sumptank for centuries of minor orbital corrections.”

Paul nodded brusquely. “Go on.”

“Now this section is the course Bitra tried to set. The first course correction should have been initiated about now.” Dieter frowned at the equations on his monitor. “In fact, she should be plunging straight toward our eccentric planet. Maybe we’ll find out sooner than we know what the surface is like.”

“Not that Avril is likely to stand by and give us any useful information as—as Sallah did.” Dieter looked up at the savage tone of the admiral’s voice. “Sorry. C’mon. You’ve the right. And if something goes wrong . . .” Paul left the sentence dangling as he led Dieter down the corridor to the interface room.

Emily had gone with Tarvi to give him what comfort she could, so Ezra was manning the room alone. He looked as old as Paul felt after the wringing emotions of the day.

“Any word?”

“None of it for polite company,” Ezra said with a snort. “She’s just discovered that the first course correction hasn’t occurred.” He turned the dial so that the low snarl of vindictive curses was plainly audible.

Paul grinned maliciously at Dieter. “So you said.” He turned on the speakers.

“Avril, can you hear me?”

“Benden! What the hell did that bitch of yours do? How did she do it? The override is locked. I can’t even maneuver. I knew I should have sawn her
foot
off.”

Ezra blanched and Dieter looked ill, but Paul’s smile was vindictive. So Avril had underestimated Sallah. He took a deep breath of pride in the valiant woman.

“You’re going to explore the plutonic planet, Avril darling. Why don’t you be a decent thing and give us a running account?”

“Shove it, Benden. You know where! You’ll get nothing out of me. Oh, shit! Oh, shit! it’s not the—oh, shiiiitt.”

The sound of her final expletive was drowned by a sizzling roar that made Ezra grab for the volume dial.

“Shit!” Paul echoed very softly. “It’s not the . . . ’—the what? Damn you, Avril, to eternity! It’s not the
what
?”

Emily and Pierre, along with Chio-Chio Yoritomo, who had been Kenjo’s wife’s cabinmates on the
Buenos Aires
and her housemate on Irish Square, took the fast sled to Kenjo’s Honshu Stake. While most of Landing knew about Kenjo’s death and Ongola’s serious illness, there had been no public announcement. Rumor had been busy discussing the “unknown” assailant.

When Emily returned that night, she brought a sealed message to the admiral.

“She told us,” Emily said dryly, “that she would prefer to stay on at Honshu to work the stake herself for her four children. She has few needs and would not trouble us.”

“She is very traditional,” Chio-Chio told the admiral breathlessly. “She would not show grief, for that belittles the dead.” She shrugged, eyes down, her hands clenching and unclenching. Then she looked up, almost defiant in her anger. “She was like that. Kenjo married her because she would not question what he did. He asked me first, but I had more sense, even if he
was
a war ace. Oh!” She brought her arm up to hide her face. “But to die like that! Struck from behind. An ignominious death for one who had cheated it so often!” Then she turned and fled from the room, her sobbing audible as she ran out into the night.

Emily gestured for Paul to open the small note, which was well sealed by wax and stamped with some kind of marking. He broke it open and unfolded the thick, beautiful, handmade paper. Then, mystified, he handed it to Emily and Pierre.

“There were two caves cut, to judge by the amount of fuel used and rubble spilled. One cave housed the plane. I do not know where the other was,” Emily read. “So he did manage to remove some of the fuel? How much?”

“We’ll see if Ezra can figure it out—or Ongola, when he recovers. Pierre?” Paul asked the chef for a pledge of silence.

“Of course. Discretion was bred in my family for generations, Admiral.”

“Paul,” the admiral corrected him.

“For something like this, old friend, you are the admiral!” Pierre clicked his heels together and inclined his body slightly from the waist, smiling with a brief reassurance. “Emily, you are tired. You should rest now. Paul, tell her!”

Paul laid one hand on Pierre’ de Courci’s shoulder and took Emily’s arm with the other. “There is one more duty for the day, Pierre, and you’d best be with us.”

“The bonfire!” Emily pulled back against Paul’s arm. “I’m not sure I—”

“Who can?” Paul broke in when she faltered. “Tarvi has asked it.”

All three walked with reluctant steps, joining the trickle of others going in the same direction, down to the dark Bonfire Square. Each house had left one light burning. The thinly scattered stars were brilliant, and the first moon, Timor, was barely a crescent on the eastern skyline.

By the pyramid of thicket and fern, Tarvi stood, his head down, a man as gaunt as some of the branches that had been cast into the pile. Suddenly, as if he knew that all were there who would come, he lit the brand. It flared up to light a face haggard with grief, with hair that straggled across tear-wet cheeks.

Tarvi raised the brand high, turning slowly as if to place firmly in his memory the faces of all those in attendance.

“From now on,” he shouted hoarsely, “I am not Tarvi, nor Andiyar. I am Telgar, so that her name is spoken every day, so that her name is remembered by everyone for giving
us
her life today. Our children will now bear that name, too. Ram Telgar, Ben Telgar, Dena Telgar, and Cara Telgar, who will never know her mother.” He took a deep breath, filling his chest. “
What is my name?
”

“Telgar!” Paul replied as loud as he could.

“Telgar!” cried Emily beside him, Pierre’s baritone repeating it a breath behind her. “
Telgar!
”

“Telgar! Telgar! Telgar!
Telgar! Telgar!
” Nearly three thousand voices took up the shout in a chant, pumping their arms until Telgar thrust the burning torch into the bonfire. As the flame roared up through the dry wood and fern, the name crescendoed. “
Telgar! Telgar! Telgar!
”

T
HE SHOCK OF
Sallah Telgar’s death reverberated across the continent. She had been well known, both as shuttle pilot during debarkation and as an able manager of the Karachi camp. Her courage, however, gave an unexpected boost to, morale, almost as if, because Sallah had been willing to devote the last moments of her life to benefit the colony, everyone had to strive harder to vindicate her sacrifice. Or so it seemed for the next eight days until some disturbing rumors began to circulate.

“Look, Paul,” Joel Lilienkamp began even before he had closed the door behind him. “Everyone’s got a right to access Stores. But that Ted Tubberman’s been taking out some unusual stuff for a botanist.”

“Not Tubberman again,” Paul said, leaning back in his chair with a deep sigh of disgust. Tarv—Telgar, Paul corrected himself, had phoned the previous day, asking if Tubberman had been authorized to scrounge in the shuttle they were dismantling.

“Yes,” Joel said. “If you ask me, he’s only accessing half his chips. You’ve got enough on your plate, Paul, but you gotta know what that fool’s doing.’ I’ll bet my last bottle of brandy he’s up to something.”

“At Wind Blossom’s request, Pol has denied him further access to the biology labs,” Paul said wearily. “Seems he was acting as if
he
was in charge of bioengineering. Bay doesn’t like him much, either.”

“She’s not alone,” Joel replied, lowering himself to a chair and scrubbing at his face. “I want your permission to shut the shop door in his face, too. I caught him in Building G, which houses the technically sensitive stuff. I don’t want anyone in there without my authorization. And there he was, bald-faced and swaggering like he had every right, he and Bart Lemos.”

“Bart Lemos!” Paul sat up again.

“Yeah. He, Bart, and Stev Kimmer’re doing a good-old-buddy bit these days. And I don’t like the rumors my sources tell me they’re spreading.”

“Stev Kimmer’s in on it?” Paul was surprised.

Joel shrugged. “He’s mighty thick with ’em.”

Paul rubbed his knuckles thoughtfully. Bart Lemos was a gullible nonentity, but Stev Kimmer was a highly skilled technician. Paul had put a discreet monitor on the man’s activities after Avril’s departure. Stev had gone on a three-day bender and been found asleep in the dismantled shuttle. Once he had recovered from the effects of quikal, he had gone back to work. Fulmar said that other mechanics did not like pairing with him because he was taciturn, if not downright surly. The thought of Tubberman having access to Kimmer’s expertise made Paul uneasy. “What exactly have you heard, Lili?” he asked.

“A load of crap,” the little storesman said, folding his fingers across his chest. “I don’t think anyone with any sense buys the notion that Avril and Kenjo were in league. Or that Ongola killed Kenjo to keep them from taking the
Mariposa
to go for help. But I’ll warn you, Paul, if Kitti’s bioengineering program doesn’t show postive results, we could be down the tubes. I’ll lay odds you and Emily are going to be asked to reconsider sending off that homing capsule.”

The previous evening, Paul had discussed that expedient with Emily, Ezra, and Jim. Keroon had been the fiercest opponent of a homing-capsule Mayday, which he termed an exercise in futility. As Paul remarked, such technological help was, at the earliest, ten years away. And the chance that the FSP would move with any speed to assist them was depressingly slim. To send for help seemed not only a rejection of Sallah’s sacrifice but a cowardly admission of failure when they had not exhausted the ingenuity and resourcefulness of their community.

“What sort of material has Ted been requisitioning, Lili?” Paul asked.

Joel extracted a wad of paper from his thigh pocket and made a show of unfolding and reading from it. “Grab bag from hydroponics to insulation materials, steel mesh and posts, and some computer chips that Dieter says he couldn’t possibly need, use, or understand.”

“Did you happen to ask Tubberman what he needed them for?”

“I happened to just do that very thing. A bit arrogant he was, too. Said they were needed for his experiments”—Joel was clearly dubious about their value—“to develop a more effective defense against the Thread until help comes.”

Paul grimaced. He had heard the botanist’s wild claims that
he
, not the biologists and their jumped-up mutated lizards, would protect Pern. “I don’t like that ’till help comes’ bit,” Paul murmured, gritting his teeth.

“So, tell me to lock him out, Paul. He may be a charterer, but he’s overspent his credit and then some.” He waved the sheet. “I got records to prove that.”

Paul nodded. “Yes, but next time he presents a list, get him to tell you what he wants, then shut the door. I want to know what he’s up to.”

“Restrict him to his stake,” Joel said, rising to his feet, an expression of genuine concern on his round face, “and you’ll save all of us a lot of aggro. He’s a wild card, and you can’t be sure where he’ll bounce up next.”

Paul grinned at the storesman. “I’d be glad to, Lili, but the mandate doesn’t permit that kind of action.”

Joel snorted derisively, hesitated a moment longer, and then, shrugging in his inimitable fashion, left the office.

Paul did not forget the conversation, but the morning brought more pressing concerns. Despite the best efforts of Fulmar and his engineering crews, three more sleds had failed airworthiness tests. That meant using more ground crews, the last line of defense and the most enervating for people already worked to the point of exhaustion. Neither Paul nor Emily recognized the significance of three separate reports: one from the veterinary lab, saying that their supply rooms had been rifled overnight; another from Pol Nietro, reporting that Ted Tubberman had been seen in bioengineering; and the third from Fulmar, saying that someone had made off with one of the exhaust cylinders from the dismantled shuttle.

When Joel Lilienkamp’s angry call came through, Paul had little trouble arriving at a conclusion.

“May his orifices congeal and his extremities fall off,” Joel cried at the top of his voice. “He’s got the homing capsule!”

Shock jolted Paul out of his chair, while Emily and Ezra regarded him in astonishment. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, Paul. I hid the carton in among stove pipes and heating units. It hasn’t been misplaced, but who the hell could
know
that carton #45/879 was a homing capsule?”

“Tubberman took it?”

“I’ll bet my last bottle of brandy he did.” Joel spoke so fast that his words slurred. “The fucker! The crap-eater, the slime-producing maggot!”

“When did you discover it gone?”

“Now! I’m calling from Building G. I check it out at least once a day.”

“Could Tubberman have followed you?”

“What sort of a twat do you think I am?” Joel was as apoplectic at such a suggestion as he was about the theft. “I check every building every day and I can tell you exactly what was requisitioned yesterday and the day before, so I fucking well know when something’s missing!”

“I don’t doubt you for a moment, Joel.” Paul rubbed his hand hard over his mouth, thinking rapidly. Then he saw the anxious expressions of Emily and Ezra. “Hold on,” he said into the handset, and reported what Joel had said.

“Well,” Ezra replied, a look of intense relief passing over his gaunt features. “Tubberman couldn’t launch a kite. He can barely maneuver a sled. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“Not him. But I worry a lot about Stev Kimmer and Bart Lemos being seen in Tubberman’s company lately,” Paul said quietly. Ezra seemed to deflate, burying his head in his hands.

“Ted Tubberman has had it,” Emily said, placing the folder she had been studying onto the table in a precise manner and rising to her feet. “I don’t give a spent chip for his position as a charterer or the privacy of his stake. We’re searching Calusa.” She gave Ezra a poke in the shoulder. “C’mon, you’ll know what components he’d need.”

They all heard the sound of running feet, then the door burst in and Jake Chernoff erupted into the office.

“Sir, sorry, sir,” the young man cried, his face flushed, his chest heaving from exertion. “Your phone—” He pointed excitedly at the receiver in the admiral’s hand. “Too important. Scanners at met—something blasted off from Oslo Landing, three minutes ago—and it wasn’t a sled. Too small.”

As one, Paul, Emily, and Ezra made for the door and ran to the interface chamber. Ezra fumbled at the terminal in his haste to implement the program. An exhaust trail was plainly visible, on a northwestern heading. Cursing under his breath, Ezra switched to the
Yoko
’s monitor, which was tracking the blip. For a long moment they watched, rigid with fury and frustration. Then Ezra straightened his long frame, his hands hanging limply.

“Well, what’s done’s done.”

“Not completely,” Emily said, her voice harsh as she separated each syllable in a curious lilt. She turned to Paul, her eyes very bright, her lips pursed, and her expression implacable. “Oslo Landing, hmmm? That capsule was just launched. Let’s go get the buggers.”

Leaving Ezra to monitor the capsule’s ascent, Paul and Emily left at a run. The first three big men they encountered on their way to the grid were commandeered to assist. Paul spotted Fulmar and told him to pilot Kenjo’s augmented sled.

“Don’t ask questions, Fulmar,” Paul said, peremptorily seconding two more burly technicians. “Just head us toward Jordan, and everyone keep their eyes open for sled traffic.” He reached for the comm unit as he shrugged into his harness. “Who’s in the tower? Tarrie? I want to know who’s in the air above the river, where they’re going, and where they’ve been.”

Fulmar took off in such a steep climb that for a moment the noise blanketed any answer Tarrie Chernoff gave.

“Only one sled above the Jordan, sir, apart from that—other flight.” She choked on her words and then recovered the impersonal reserve of a comm officer. “The sled does not acknowledge.”

“They will,” Paul assured her grimly. “Continue to monitor all traffic in that area.”

Tubberman was just stupid enough to be obvious, but somehow Paul did not think that such stupidity was a trait of Stev Kimmer or whomever else Ted had talked into such an arrant abrogation of the democratic decision of the colony.

Tubberman was alone in the sled when Fulmar forced him to land in the riverside desolation of the ill-fated Bavaria Stake. He was unrepentant as he faced them, folding his arms across his chest and jutting his chin out defiantly.

“I’ve done what should have been done,” he stated in pompous righteousness. “The first step in saving this colony from annihilation.”

Paul clenched his fists tightly to his sides. Beside him, Emily was vibrating with a fury as intense as his own.

“I want the names of your accomplices, Tubberman,” Paul said through his teeth, “and I want them now!”

Tubberman inhaled, bracing himself. “Do your worst, Admiral. I am man enough to take it.”

The mock heroic attitude was so absurd to his auditors that one of the men behind Paul let out a short bark of incredulous laughter, which he quickly cut off. But the one burst of derision altered Paul’s mood.

“Tubberman, I wouldn’t let anyone touch a hair of your head,” Paul said, grinning in a release of tension. “There are quite suitable ways to deal with you, plainly set out in the charter—nothing quite as crude or barbaric as physical abuse.” Then he turned. “You men take him back to Landing in his sled. Put him in my office and call Joel Lilienkamp. He’ll take charge of the prisoner.” Paul had the satisfaction of seeing the martyred look fade from Tubberman’s eyes, to be replaced by a mixture of anxiety and surprise. Turning on his heel, Paul gestured Emily, Fulmar, and the others back into their sled.

Tarrie reported no other vehicles in the area and apologized that traffic records were no longer kept. “Except for that . . . rocket thing, the pattern was normal, sir. Oh, and Jake’s back. Did you want to speak to him?”

“Yes,” Paul answered, wishing that Ongola were back in charge. “Jake, I want to know where Bart Lemos and Stev Kimmer are. And Nabhi Nabol.” Beside him, Emily nodded approval.

By then, Fulmar had covered the short air distance between Bavaria and Oslo Landing. The remains of the launch platform were still smoking. While Paul went with the others to search the area for sled skids, Fulmar carefully prodded through the overheated circle beneath it, sniffing as he went.

“Shuttle fuel by the smell of it, Paul,” he reported. “A homing capsule wouldn’t take much.”

“It would take know-how,” Paul said grimly. “And expertise, and you and I know just how many people are capable of handling that sort of technology.” He looked Fulmar square in the eye, and the man’s shoulders sagged. “Not your fault, Fulmar. I had your report. I had others. I just didn’t put the pieces together.”

“Who’d have thought Ted’d pull such a crazy stunt? No one believes half of what he says!” Fulmar protested.

Emily and the others came back then from an inconclusive search. “There’re a lot of skid marks, Paul,” she reported. “And rubbish.” She indicated a collapsed fuel sack and a handful of connectors and wires. Fulmar’s look of desolation deepened.

“We’re wasting time here,” Paul said, curbing his irritation.

“Let’s have Cherry and Cabot waiting in my office,” Emily murmured as they climbed into the sled.

“He’s
proud
of what he did,” Joel stormed when Paul and Emily called him into Emily’s office on their return. “Says it was his
duty
to save the colony. Says we’ll be surprised at how many people agree with him.”

“He’s the one who’ll be surprised,” Emily replied. Her jaw was set in a resolute line, and her lips curved in a curious smile, which her tired eyes did not echo.

“Yeah, Em, but what
can
we do to him?” Joel demanded in impotent indignation.

Emily poured herself a fresh cup of klah and took a sip before she answered. “He will be shunned.”

“Who will be shunned?” Cherry Duff demanded in her hoarse voice, entering the room at that instant. Cabot Carter was right behind her, having escorted the magistrate from her office in reply to the summons.