Exile (7 page)

"I know that ship," Captain Weens said in awe. He turned to stare, still pop-eyed, into Tabrel's face. "This is either very good news or very bad."

In partial answer, there was a blast of plasma energy across the bow of their ship from the very tip of the huge craft; it cut close, but they were not its target.

Captain Weens and Tabrel once more turned their attention to the pirate ship, which was in full flight.

The beam of plasma caught the pirate vessel in its stern and, like a raser cutting a metal can, opened the pirate ship from end to end.

Amid popping lights of system failures, the pirate vessel split languidly into two halves. Tabrel saw tiny struggling forms flailing between, but soon all had been turned into space debris and all was silent.

Weens whistled. "Well, I'll be! Never saw anything like tha' in all my days! Never even lied about anything that grand! Whoo!"

"We are still being pulled, sir," the navigator reported. "We will be in the hold of the adjacent craft within two minutes."

"Thankee, ye fool!" Weens replied, reaching back to strike at the navigator with his hand. Outside, the window was now filled completely with the massive craft, and Tabrel could make out an open bay door, toward which they were doggedly being drawn.

Captain Ween turned his attention to the pilot, which had remained nearly motionless in its seat through this entire episode.

"What about ye, ye hunk o' crap? Anything t' say for yeseif?"

"There is nothing to say, or do," the robot replied implacably. "At the moment there are no piloting functions to perform—"

"Shut up, will ye! Just shut up an' be still!"

"Yes, sir," the pilot responded.

The cargo door over them widened; and then they were inside a cone of yellow light. Temporarily, they were blind.

"Leave me m' good eye at least!" Weens complained.

As if in answer, the light dimmed, went out. They were left in soothing shadows, bathed in a low amber luminescence.

"Oh, yes, I know who's behind this, all right."

"Who?" i i vviiO. iaorei asked.

"Someone who doesn't like to be spoken of," Weens said cryptically. "Someone—"

"Depart your vessel!" a cold, very loud voice commanded. It sounded the way a robot might if given the ability to speak feelings. If the laws of robotics were disobeyed, this was what a robot would sound like.

"Better do as he says," Weens gaid, moving for the aft airlock.

"I think I'll wait here," Tabrel said. "After all, I have diplomatic immunity—"

"Not wi' this fellow, you don't," Weens said, "Nobody's got tha' with this 'un. Best to come along."

"I'll stay here," Tabrel said defiantly.

"Please, lassie—" Weens begged, but when he saw the look on Tabrel's face, he shrugged and hobbled to the airlock, opening it and going quickly through. "If I can't change ye mind, it's yer own funeral," he said.

Tabrel, her heart fluttering, noticed that the two, robots sat unmoving at their posts; by the look of the indicator lights to either side of their heads, they had regressed into standby.

Faintly, Tabrel heard Weens give a shout of alarm somewhere outside; then there was silence.

A
presence descended on the ship as if a giant invisible foot had leaned its weight invisibly upon it.

In the dark interior, Tabrel felt the air around her darken.

"Anyone home?" a voice called out cheerily.

The dark feeling became oppressive and close and impossible to escape.

And then Tabrel felt nothing but her own darkness descend upon her, as the world went away and she spiraled down into a place where only dreams and remembrance dwelled, and nothing more.

"R
eport," Prime Cornelian demanded from his bed, casually.

Pynthas had never been so frightened, and approached with quaking knees. He had eaten not an hour before and felt his stomach about to give up its contents. He found that when he attempted to open his mouth, only a dry rasp came out.

"Speak up!" Prime Cornelian said. One slim metallic limb fell languidly from the side of the tank, dripping lubricant onto the blindingly reflective floor. The deck, octagonal walls, and sectioned, domed ceiling of the sleeping chamber were covered in mirror: this in itself, without the aid of bad news, made Pynthas ill whenever he entered. He felt as if he were inside a kaleidoscope, with blue, green, and red bits of Prime Cornelian hovering around him like vicious bees.

"Well?" Prime Cornelian said, moving a slitted eye to stare at Pynthas from a thousand vantage points.

Pynthas felt dissected.

"Bad news, High Leader," Pynthas croaked out.

"Really? Why don't you let me be the judge?"

Pynthas knew that the only thing going in his favor was the fact that the High Leader was still groggy from his rest. Floating like a June bug in his huge tub, which resembled a halved sphere on a rodded pedestal, polished to high brilliance, Prime Cornelian would still be under the effects of his lubricant bath, which renewed and sustained him while he slept. Pynthas had never seen the High Leader eat, but without his monthly rest and renewal, Prime Cornelian would tighten and lock like a rusty hinge—as well as go mad.

"Yes, High Leader," Pynthas managed to force out hoarsely.

"I rather like that term—don't you Pynthas? High Leader sounds so . . .
high."

Prime Cornelian chuckled listlessly, pulling his leg back into the bath and now stretching out all his limbs, which squeaked and hissed.

"Ahhh, that feels so good!"

Once more the High Leader opened an eye to stare at Pynthas from a hundred-times-ten vantage points.

"Report!" Prime Cornelian suddenly snapped, his harsh voice bouncing around the room like light.

"Yes!" Pynthas said, finding his voice. But still his knees knocked and his hands shook.

"Riots have b-broken out in Bradbury and Schiaparelli," Pynthas stuttered. "P-parts of W-Wells have been . . ."

"Yes?"

"T-taken over by government loyalists."

"Is that all? I expected that. What about response?"

"Marines have restored order in most areas, but last night there were bombings in many places. The central police station was destroyed in Schiaparelli and fifty-nine policemen killed. A Marine detachment was ambushed in—"

"Is that all you have to tell me? What about Venus?"

"Things have been quiet on Venus, High Leader. Our contacts on the ground there are monitoring the situation closely. They'll let us know of any change."

"Good."

"But the Terraformers have finished arming their plants and have threatened to destroy them at the first sign of trouble on the planet"

Prime Cornelian was silent for a moment. Pynthas closed his eyes and wished he were anywhere else on the planet—or better yet, on another planet.

But an explosion did not come. There was only the lap of lubricating fluid on the sides of the tank, the occasional drip of a rogue drop onto the polished floor.

Pynthas opened his eyes and saw a thousand slitted orbs regarding him from every corner of the room, making him feel like a bug under a lens.

"And do you have word of Senator Kris's daughter?" Prime Cornelian said, very quietly.

"No, High Leader. You realize how ... difficult it is to get word from that sector. Wrath-Pei—"

"Wrath-Pei will talk to me, if he has her. Of course,
I
will have to call
him.
But the call will be worth the temporary denigration of my pride." Prime Cornelian sighed, shifted in his bath to stand up.

Pynthas nearly gasped in fright at the horrible sight of the insect-man towering nearly to the ceiling as he stretched, golden sheets of oil flowing from his carapace, and the entire monstrous scene reflected hundreds of times

Pynthas's breakfast rose into his throat, and he gagged it back down.

"For heaven's sake, man—get yourself something to eat!" Prime Cornelian ordered.

"Y-yes, High Leader."

"And hand me a towel before you leave."

"Yes, High Leader."

Swallowing his regurgitated meal, nearly swooning, Pynthas reached to take an oil-slicked cheesecloth in the vague form of a robe from a rack next to the door. He walked through slick puddles of lubricant and handed it up to the High Leader, all the while wanting to faint.

"Thank you," Prime Cornelian said.

Pynthas nodded.

"Summon the provisional governors to my chambers, and also the various military heads. Perhaps they're not aware of what my instructions meant.

It's very important that we make this look like a domestic squabble —at least for the moment."

"Yes, High Leader."

"And if there is any news from Titan, I want it immediately."

"Yes, High Leader."

"That means
immediately,
Pynthas. No matter what I'm doing."

Head bowed in sickness, Pynthas mumbled, "Of course, High Leader."

"Pynthas, look up at me."

Stifling a groan, Pynthas lifted his gaze to look at the shrouded High Leader. The robe now covered Prime Cornelian's husk and had soaked the oil away like a sponge.

Prime Cornelian climbed from the tub like a spider, his six limbs keeping the rest of his body from reimmersing itself in the oil bath. He stood on the mirrored floor of the room and continued to dry himself, two limbs at a time working along the length of his other parts.

He paused and looked at Pynthas—his gaze, now mingled with Pynthas's own, locked in reflection around the room.

"You really should try it sometime," Prime Comehan said, nodding his head toward the tub, which at that moment slopped a wave of sickly scented lubricant over the side to splash on the floor.

Pynthas stumbled from the room, the harsh bleat of the High Leader's laughter ringing in his ears.

"Tabrel?"

It was a fairy-tale voice she heard. No one had ever spoken her name like that before. It was like musical chimes, like singing, like a breath of sweet wind telling poetry. It almost didn't sound like her name, but like someone else's—someone magical, worthy of song.

"Tabrel?" the minstrel's voice came again.

"Yes?" she heard herself saying, trying to sing, rising up out of her sleep.

She opened her eyes.

There was the minstrel standing over her.

She knew his face, though vaguely. He looked older than the picture she had of him in her mind, though he was still young. He had the face of a troubadour, from pictures she had seen of long ago.

But his eyes looked troubled.

"Tabrel, can you hear me?"

She could hear him, and tried to nod, but could not. She was slowly rising out of another place. There had been no dreams she could remember. It had been more like being unalive than asleep. She felt groggy and weak.

"You'll be all right," the troubadour said.

"Jamal?" she said weakly, and he nodded.

"Yes!"

"Ohhhhh . . ."

She tried to rise on her elbows and swooned back.

His hand was behind her head, helping to ease her back down.

"Now you must sleep," Jamal said. "When you have had real sleep, you will feel better."

Again she tried to rise, but it was pushing against a world weighing down on her.

"But my father and the others . . ."

His cradling hand, so soft on the back of her head, lay her gently down.

"Shhh, now. Go to sleep."

She nodded, already closing her eyes.

"Tabrel," she heard him say again in his singsong voice, and he sounded so pleased....

She awoke, from real dreams.

Startled, she sat up.

She was in a bed of sorts, and the room was dark. There were curtains, and a window opening out onto a soft evening. The curtains rustled with night breeze, which reached coolly to bathe her face.

She rose from the bed and walked barefoot to the window, feeling carpeted floor beneath her.

Above, there were stars, and something bright and startlingly close cutting at the western horizon like a scythe. Against this yellow light was outlined a skyline of trees and faraway structures.

As she watched, the massive yellow edge moved down from view, as if a clockwork were in motion pulling it away below the world.

In the sky, stars spread like an overlay, and there were two tiny round worlds, with phased faces.

In the near distance there was a body of water, and close by, a line of trees and a wooded hill; closer yet, a group of buildings close to the ground, grouped like a compound.

The coolness of the night felt good against her face.

Far off, an animal barked, sounding like a dog, and then there was another animal sound, like an Earth cock crowing.