her instruments 03 - laisrathera (27 page)

“From one predator to another,” the alien said, and slid from the chaise longue.

As he reached the door, Baniel said, “Lackadaisical, you said?”

“The ship sleeps in orbit. I would punish them for it, but they are too few for the prize they have captured. There will be time to discipline them properly… perhaps when I have a few of my own kind among them to show them.” The alien cocked his head. “You disagree?”

“I only wondered. I would hate to have such firepower in the hands of those who have decided they need not answer to you.”

The alien chuckled. “Let them rebel if they dare. They already fear others of my kind walk among them, hidden in their shapes, waiting to punish their defiance. They frighten themselves into compliance… prey, all of them.”

Baniel chuckled. “Let me guess. A rumor you sowed yourself.”

“Nothing of the kind.” The alien grinned. “But when they birthed it themselves, perhaps I did nothing to discourage it. Best to know who could be cowed by such rumors, eh?”

“Just so. Enjoy your night, then, what remains of it. Lessons tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Eagerly.”

“Mm.” The door closed behind him, taking the alien with it and, Baniel knew, any hope of that lesson on the morrow; Surela had the creature well and truly distracted. The situation suited him, however; he had everything he needed, having established the link and tested it. Further instruction would only arm the alien, and as much as possible he wanted the Chatcaavan helpless to resist any of Baniel’s efforts. His brother, he knew, would be returning soon. Might even already be here, for he was not so dismissive of a ship’s silence as the alien. Perhaps it was in combat with whatever forces Hirianthial had mustered in his absence.

And then he would be coming here. Of that, a certitude, for his brother was nothing if not predictable. He pondered the possibility of contriving a trap that would kill Hirianthial without any further oversight from him—it would certainly be safer to take his leave of the world (and not by using any convenient vessel offered him by an alien and his crew of thugs). But he would never be sure of Hirianthial’s demise if he didn’t witness it. The other predictable thing about the man, lately anyway, had been his ability to live through all the lethal obstacles Baniel had arranged. Granted, his survival through the last one had been engineered, but that was only because Baniel wanted to see him hurt before he died. A weakness, Baniel thought: his own. But it was his last, and soon he would tend it, and have no more. And then… the universe awaited.

He glanced through the window at the firmament.
Where are you, O my brother? How long will you make me wait?

A shiver coursed his spine that owed nothing at all to the cold.

Waking to the sound of a halo-arch’s pings and musical murmurs wasn’t new. What was new was that the song they were generating wasn’t some dirge describing a physical state unequal to consciousness. He was, he thought with amusement, becoming more deft at this fainting from mortal injury business. He’d also had the grace to lose his grip near a modern medical facility, and the
Moonsinger’s
was no doubt impressive.

From a distance, muffled footfalls on carpet sounded, and then a shadow hove over him and was followed by a face. Jasper’s mouth gaped in a foxish grin. “And the unlikely hero awakes. Hello, Lord Hirianthial.”

“Hello, alet,” he answered. “Is it terminal?”

“Now that I’ve stitched your spleen back together? You’re fresh as a new cub. And apparently as accident prone.” The Ciracaana tapped the halo-arch, retracting it. “Need a hand?”

“No, I think I need the practice sitting up by myself.” He smiled a little and tried it, and other than a faint tremor in his wrists and a slight queasiness, found himself remarkably hale given the situation he last recalled. “I take it the Medplex is not currently under siege by pirates.”

“Wouldn’t that be dramatic. No, the surviving pirates are all trussed up in the brig, and still unconscious—any idea how long that’s going to last?”

“No?”

Jasper huffed. “I thought I’d ask, since you’re the one responsible for their state.”

“Am I.” A memory of power and beauty and oneness that sent a flutter of feeling through him, warming his skin and prickling at the back of his neck.

“Lost the last few minutes of the fight, eh? Not unusual. Well, other than some nicks and scrapes, and the whole ‘spleen repair failing, probably from stress’ part, you’re good to go, and you were the last one I was sitting watch on. Everyone else is up on the bridge.”

“Was anyone….”

“Hurt? Sure.” Jasper’s ears sagged, and his smile was whimsical. “Happens in this line of work. Hurt enough not to mend up? No. Everyone’s fine, Lord Hirianthial. And they’re all waiting on you, though you won’t catch them saying so.”

“Then if you give a moment to orient myself, I will join them.”

“Of course.”

Alone, Hirianthial pushed himself to the edge of the bed and steadied himself, hanging his head and drawing in a breath. On the exhale, he spread his awareness out from core, tentative, waiting for the headache and pain.

Nothing.

Somewhere in his mind, the memory of a priest was chuckling.
God does not break His tools.

Which explained the spleen how? he wondered.

Ah, but mortal flesh can only bear so much.

He snorted, smiled and touched his side. No doubt. Like the several wounds he’d probably taken in the fight without noticing in the adrenaline surge that had accompanied their peril. He could do with a touch more awareness of his physical state--he would keep that in mind, the next time he needed to reach for these abilities. The God gift, as Lune would have him call it, and agreeing with her he set his hands on his knees and composed himself, and said prayers he had not had the heart for since his wife’s death: gratitude, and pledging. The gift must be used wisely.

And,
Urise whispered,
you did not kill with it.

“I am no Corel,” he agreed, quiet, and went to find Jasper, and the others.

When he arrived on the bridge, all conversation stopped. Six faces turned toward him, their auras flaring: curiosity, pleasure, relief, a strange and powerful possessiveness. He was still sorting the impressions when Sascha hit him with an enthusiastic embrace he should have expected, shattering all those nascent thoughts with the strength of his joy: that he lived, that they all lived and had been reprieved. “Oh, Angels, arii!”

Hirianthial smiled and bent low enough to rest his nose briefly against disheveled golden hair. “There, now. No harm done, as you can see. For once.”

“We were going to die. I knew it. I
knew
it.” Sascha leaned back and stared up at him, earnest. “And then they all just… fell down. What did you
do
?”

“We’re curious too,” Soly said from behind the Harat-Shar. She and the others were sitting at a small table near the back wall, by the lift, framed by the read-outs above unmanned stations that whispered and flickered through their automated procedures. The Seersa’s aura revealed a creamy orange curiosity, not quite intense enough to be more vivid, and no disquiet, which he found astonishing. Concern, perhaps, but for him and not because of him. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

To say that he was fairly certain it was the God and Goddess working through him would probably not move the Pelted; the Alliance had its devout, but they were rarer than those who navigated their lives with little interest for the Powers. Lune would understand; Tomas… who knew with humans? The only one he knew well swore by the blood of patriots, by war and revolution. He chose a less fraught explanation, then. “I was not certain it was within my measure, or I would have said something. But I believe the urgency of the situation was… inspiring.”

“Inspiring.” Soly’s mouth twitched.

“Almost dying does have a way of inspiring people,” Narain agreed with a look of attempted sagacity.

“Seriously, though.” Tomas leaned forward, interested. “What did you do? Can you do it again?”

“Probably,” Hirianthial said. How easy would it be without the ship lending him the knowledge of its bones and marrow? “But it is not something I would do lightly.”

“Knocking out eighty-seven people at once? I imagine not.” Soly considered him. “How did you figure out how not to hit us, though?”

He looked down at Sascha, who had not yet let him go, only stepped to one side with a possessive arm still curled around his waist. Then he surveyed them all and felt only confusion. “How could I have? You are allies.”

Tomas guffawed. “Just like that. Might as well be magic.”

“A disciplined mind manipulating reality is not magic,” Jasper retorted.

Bryer huffed. “Is right. No magic.” He cocked his head. “One with the Eye, knows all things.”

Hirianthial paused, arrested by the words. Then said, quiet, “Not all things. But the things that matter at the time, perhaps.”

A ripple of pleasure traveled the Phoenix’s close, dense aura. “You understand.”

“A little more than I did before.” Hirianthial glanced past the others toward the fore of the bridge, past the ramp leading to the overhanging balcony and the spreading stations that oversaw the ship’s many functions. The view was beyond description; it would take the Alliance to substitute a three-dimensional display the height of his townhouse for a mere window looking out on space. The tank held several displays in addition to the swollen curve of his homeworld, its clouds in thick woolen tatters over its surface. “As I am the last awake, perhaps you might tell me how things stand?”

Soly nodded. “You know the pirates are in the brig.”

“So Jasper said.”

She leaned back, threading her fingers on her solar plexus and looking toward the display. “The first thing we did after cleaning that little problem up was see if we could get the computers to cough up a history for how this ship got into criminal hands….”

“Tomas’s doing,” Narain said. “And mine. A little. Once I woke up.”

At the sparkle of anxiety in Sascha’s aura, Hirianthial glanced down at him with a lifted brow. The tigraine grimaced and said, “We were in sorry shape coming out of that fight.”

“It was fine,” Narain said to Sascha—not to Hirianthial, interestingly, “I’ve had worse.”

Soly cleared her throat, drawing their attention back. “As we suspected, she was taken on the border in a skirmish that led into a very neat trap, and she’s been missing for three months now. The crew was….” She stopped, ears slicking back. “The crew is gone. We might recover them, but the trail we have to follow is probably snowed under by now. It’ll be for someone else to do.” She paused, gathering her thoughts from the distress that had shattered them. “There was a crew of one hundred and fifty pirates on this ship, and only a hundred and fifteen aboard. The remainder are down there, with the Chatcaavan. There’s been no communication in or out of the system that we can tell, but this ship received word of its new assignment from a different vessel. We’re assuming that’s the pirate that made the original trip here. That ship was scheduled to continue on, so we’re guessing reinforcements are on the way.”

“Guessing,” Tomas added, “Because it wouldn’t be safe to plan otherwise. The probabilities that they’re sending another warship here are low, though. This vessel is big enough to handle a world without any modern defenses, and its holds are large enough to transport some number of captives. If anything, they’ll be sending a cargo ship through, not another fighter like this.”

“Assuming they have more fighters like this,” Soly said, tail lashing. “Which their communication records suggest they might.”

“But we’re not taking any chances,” Tomas finished.

“I appreciate it,” Hirianthial said.

“We’ve sent news of this upstream using the locked repeaters we dropped on the way in. Fleet needed to know about this three months ago, but better late than never. And there’s a good chance they’ll send a skeleton crew in to help us man this thing against anyone who might be coming on her heels. That sews up the situation in orbit… which leaves things on the ground.” She looked up at him. “There have been fires.”

Such small words, to rip through him like a blade. Fires in winter—never. “Fires.”

She nodded. “There are some burned out places, and what looks like a small contingent moving up a road. Maybe about four hundred people. The other big locus of activity is further north, but I use the word ‘big’ with reservations… it’s only about sixty people. Everywhere else is quiet, and there’s no one outside. The palace is still intact, but if you have any allies there, they’re not broadcasting their presence.”

“I imagine not.” Burnt-out places and an army, for four hundred soldiers together comprised an army among a people as lacking in strength as his. And where was Theresa? Surely in hiding, for if the Tams had seen the arrival of this ship in orbit they would have waited for the contact the Queen had promised, using the secure code she had given Malia to ensure their identity. “But we should have allies on the ground, if you can direct me to a comm station.”

“Right. This way.”

The moment of truth, then. He felt Bryer’s shadow at his back, and Sascha was positively hovering. He tapped in the code and waited, and the panel chirped through its seeking protocol and then chimed acquisition.

Behind him on the tank, Malia said, “Oh, thank Iley, thank Him, you’re
here
.”

They turned, all of them, and took in her expression. Sascha said, “Where’s my sister? Where’s Reese? What’s gone wrong?”

Malia’s ears sagged. “I hope you’re sitting down.”

CHAPTER 18

“Now what?” Narain asked after the Tam-illee had signed off to minimize the chances of the pirates noticing the communication traffic.

“More like what first?” Soly turned to him. “Lord Hirianthial? Your guidance would be appreciated on the matter. Apparently your allies in the north are taking shelter somewhere without much by way of resources. Are there soldiers among them we might recruit to deal with the situation in the palace? Or should we investigate the contingent traveling up the road, since Malia wasn’t sure about them?”