Skeen's Search (33 page)

Tibo came in, stood leaning on the back of Skeen's chair, smoothing a hand slowly along her shoulder and neck. “Got the snaggers mapped?”

Hopeless waggled a hand. “Ta, Tib. Ah yah, got it. Want us to shoot it over?”

He chuckled. “About six ways I could answer that, luv.”

“Gotcha. Ready, Pic? Here it comes.”

While Picarefy sorted out the data squirted over from the transport, Skeen sipped at her tea and listened to Hopeless and Tibo spar with careful amiability as they speculated about Cidder and what he meant to do once he discovered Skeen was out again. Hopeless insisted (and the Virgin's surrogate Voices irrascibly concurred) that Cidder hadn't got a smell of them when they slid in, that he was so focused on Skeen they could have gone in behind an array of trumpet ships blasting fanfares and he wouldn't have noticed them. Tibo countered that Cidder didn't care who went in, it was who came out he was going to go for. He was a patient man, and thorough. He wanted them all and was maneuvering to get them.

Tibo: The time he was after Harpo the U Know, he sat half a year on the back of Trouble's third moon with his pet snagger powered down and making like a rock. All on a guess and a wish it was, because even Harpo didn't know he was going after Trouble, that year anyway, but he blew his stash in a yatso game and needed something sure.

Hopeless: Harpo never lasted more than six months after a hit and he was an idiot. Yeah yeah, a lucky idiot except with any game you ever saw, but he pressed it, you know he did. Dipping twice into Trouble, tsingbohhh, Tib, he was asking to get clipped. Nothing special in that.

Tibo: Ignorant, ignorant, you travel in circles too rarified, Hop. Harpo had twenty digs he was storing up for that kind of raid, a couple of them so overdue even the sundoggies had forgot about them. What it was, he was doing the infinite regression thing. He thinks that I think that he thinks, you know, no one would go back so soon to his last Roon, so he might as well go. Cidder untangled all that and was waiting.

Hopeless: Hop? You're picking up bad habits from Skeen. Hmm. I can think of a better one. Poutar Psoum.

Tibo: Who?: Sounds like a Roggaslang.

Hopeless: Right, that one was Roggaslangger. A gahslang neut that lost its nid and turned feral. That one didn't give shit about Roons, its thing was prowling treasuries; folk who knew swore that one melted into smoke and oozed through walls, some of the things it did, oozing seemed the only way. It got above itself, though; it went after old Ugly's summerhouse and got off with the Undying's crystal harp which meant it had Cidder on its tail. That one hooted when we warned it to watch where it put its feet, you've heard gahslanggers hoot, doesn't encourage empathy in the listener. It hit a couple more treasuries, dropped into Marigold Pit for some playtime in the Mimpi Hells. Thing you have to remember, Tib, even when that one was Mimped to the gills, it never talked about its jobs, yeah there was a leech or two who Mimped with that one, trying to pry its mofo out of it but no go. And it never repeated itself, it wasn't a chirkhead like Harpo the U Know. And that one never went straight anywhere, it zagged about and if it was kiting a tail, it burned it off and if it couldn't burn it, it didn't do the thing. Well, it oozed down on Thallex and into the vaults of the High Church and there was Abel Cidder, waiting for it. The way we worked it out, Cidder must have spent a year studying everything he could dig up on Psoum, then he spent some more time thinking about it, then he went straight to the vault and collected his prize. He took Psoum back to the Cluster and gave that one to the Undying Emperor who made him, Cidder I mean, Shadowknight of Charranor and deeded him half that world to play with when he got tired of Hounding. You and Psoum didn't overlap long, Tib, so I'm not surprised you never heard of that one; hmm, it was a couple years after you showed up at Resurrection that Cidder gathered it in. Ever think of what he'll collect if he snags you, Skeen? If he can bring himself to hand you over. Hunh, maybe half the Cluster, say you keep twisting Old Ugly's nose the way you been doing. So, listen. He knows you better than you know yourself, starbait. The only reason you keep getting away from him is you've had the luck of Sweetbriar the Popole who broke the bank on Honeypot and got it offworld. And you keep coming up with the weirdest bunch of friends and partners who just happen to slide you out of the shitpool. And you're maybe just a little smart.

Skeen: Thanks a lot, Hop.

Hopeless: I'm no damn rabbit, Skeen.

Skeen: You and Timmy, sensitive.

Hopeless: You better believe it. I give myself this name and I don't want to be called out of it. (Another electric grin, but it didn't reach her eyes). Hear what I'm saying, or I pick up my counters and leave this game.

Skeen: Humblest of apologies, O paragon of exquisite sensibility, I abase myself before the delicacy of your soul. Shall I crawl on my belly and lick your feet? Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless.

Hopeless (her grin considerably more real): Gahh, nauseating idea. So. What do you think? How do we handle this?

Tibo: The Eye tell you what way he'll jump?

Voice (gloomy and disapproving, Virgin sitting very still, hands fisted, eyes closed): For us to say, not for you to ask.

Skeen: I'd say we go out separately like we came in. You'll be carrying the Ykx so you go quiet and pray the Eye can thread the needle for you. We go out noisy and pull most of what Cidder's got after us.

Tibo: Point isn't how but where.

Skeen: Virgin, any idea if the In-side of the Veil is infested like the Out?

Several Voices (Skeen can pick out three and maybe a fourth): Don't … don't go inside … no … spies … fear … inlaw and outlaw … paranoia … focused toward outsiders … too long a flightline … traps out … all probabilities negative … no …

Skeen (wrinkling her nose, drawing down her thick brows): That's out, then. Hmm. You could drop straight down. It'd be easier to spot you there, but you might be able to get a lead on the snaggers and keep loose while we make noise somewhere else. No, not down. Up. Up feels wrong, don't you get an itch thinking about it? Nobody seems to go up when they're wiggling off a hook. So. Yes. Tib, it's more than likely Petro's shield is still good unless we land right on top a snagger. We need a distraction. You're the house magician, what do you think?

Tibo: Harriers. What if we took out a few harriers? Make Cidder notice we're around.

Picarefy: Eh, Tib, this is me, remember? I can outrun 'em, give me a decent start, but outgun a harrier? Forget it.

Tibo: Listen. When I was young and generally ignorant, I shipped out with Humbolt on the Heller Madre. One of his last prowls. He was in the middle of a delivery to the Shingalaree rebels when Hound Zachs stumbled over him. Zachs came cruising through the Swarm, looking over the scene, who knows why, with a harrier to watch his tail, if he had a friend nobody knew it. His snaggers were sitting back at his base over by Orion's Knee because he was too cheap to spend the fuel when he didn't think he'd need them. Humbolt did some fancy flying, swung the sun, got behind the harrier and rammed a missile up its butt. Almost got Zachs too, but he hit the panic button and flamed out of there with the missile chasing him all the way to Teegah's Limit. He split intact, so Humbolt dropped his cargo fast and careless and went to ground in the nearest Pit. Humbolt was the only one I know of who ashed a harrier solo, but I suspect there were others who discovered that weak arse, because now harriers run in pairs or packs.

Picarefy: Pairs or packs. Tib, I still say what do you think I am?

Tibo: You've got Petro's shield in place by now. No harrier's going to detect it if the Kliu didn't, so we hunt up a harrier pack with plenty of space between them and the nearest snagships, get into them long enough to thread missiles through their jecters, all but one, we need one to squeal for help and fetch Cidder running, then we split fast as you can drive us, Pic, and we hunt up another pack and play with them a bit. Cidder should be hooked by then, so we get the hell out of that section of space.

Picarefy: With an armada after me.

Skeen: Eh, Pic, didn't you tell me you could outrun just about anything?

Picarefy: Given a good start.

Skeen: Well, we'll just have to arrange that. Then we have to lose them.

The Virgin was talking inaudibly with her disembodied companions, detached from the discussion, looking inward at something she approved of because she was smiling and nodding her head. Then she blinked, looked straight into the pickups, turning her smile on Skeen.

A Voice boomed behind Skeen: The Shoals.

Skeen: Virgin, what …?

The Virgin had tuned out again and the Voices weren't talking.

Skeen: Djabo's horny toenails, Pic, what's The Shoals?

Picarefy: A collection of vortices, soft spots and other miseries that penetrate into the insplit. It pulses so you never know when you're going to find yourself in the middle of something that proceeds to eat you. Or pull you out like cold taffy. Or reduce you to subatomic powder. It's generally out by the Brown Betty stars, but sometimes it moves. I do NOT want to go there.

Skeen: Hopeless, was that the Eye talking? And does the Virgin mean we should go there or we will go there?

Hopeless: Eye says will. Doesn't say what happens when you get there.

Skeen: When WE get there?

Hopeless: Ah yah, nothing to do with Virgin and me.

Skeen: Lovely. You ready to go down?

Hopeless: When you give the word.

Skeen: I'd better let them know you're coming. Pic, is there anyone in Workhorse? Good. Tell him I want to talk with the Kinravaly.

“Zem-trallen.”

Zelzony turned. Anki was standing in the arch where the stairs led onto the tower's roof, her body vibrating with excitement. “What is it?”

“Kinravaly asks that you join her in the tug.”

“Ah! Thank you, Anki.” Zelzony crossed to the ramp, stopped at the Lip and looked over her shoulder. “Join me?” Without waiting for the page's answer, she stepped to the edge of the Lip, spread her flightskins and dropped into the wind.

“The transport has arrived. We can land whenever you're ready for us.”

The Kinravaly touched the end of a pointed tongue to the fold in her upper lip, frowned at the screen without really seeing it; she glanced at Zelzony but said nothing and Zelzony felt no urge to break the silence. “It is midmorning here,” the Kinravaly said. “There are farewells that have to be made, blessings to be given. We have waited to draw the names of the volunteers until the transport arrived, that has to be prepared. You gave us a list of necessaries for each of the colonists. The packs are in storage here and have to be moved to the site. We have gathered a thousand wings, these too are in storage, plus seed packs, ova and surrogate wombs; don't worry, we have managed to stay under the weight limits, there is very little metal involved so weight for bulk is relatively small, but all that must be transported to the embarkation fields. Ah, give us two days, if you will. Day after tomorrow about this time. Does that suit?”

Skeen's eyes shifted a moment, her mouth moved but no sounds came through the speakers. She nodded, then looked back at them. “Yes, that's fine. Um, we'd like to put down in the lake. There'll be some flooding, but less damage to the land, also, it will be easier to control access and guard against harm to your people. The water will rise about fifty wings, Kinravaly Rallen; your garden could get damp in the lower reaches.”

“It will dry again. You know your capacities better than we can, but what you say sounds reasonable. You have our leave to use the lake. Is there anything else we should do?”

“Nothing I can think of now. If something occurs, I'll let you know.”

“All-Wise Bless, we wait your coming.”

Zelzony lingered after the Kinravaly left. “Picarefy?”

“Zem-trallen?”

“The young one. Rostico Burn. He's still on Rallen?”

“Yes. Certainly. We informed you he wished to roam about a while more.”

“Will you call him, please, and ask if he will transport me to Yasyony this afternoon?”

“One moment.”

Zelzony sat stiffly erect, claw tips clicking a staccato rhythm on a metal plate set into the chair's arm. Time … time … Picarefy said something about the pressures of time … squeezing out the juices from Ykx lives. All-Wise Weeping, what must life be like when moving across half a world north to south takes hours not days. Or east to west, for that matter.

“Zem-trallen.”

“I hear you.”

“Ross says, be glad to. He can be there in somewhere around two hours. When would you want to leave?”

Zelzony tilted the rekkagourd hanging at her belt, read off the time, called up the time at Laby Youl. “Ah, yes. Two hours from now. That will be quite satisfactory. Thank you.”

Giulin was in his studio (two small rooms in a freestanding structure that was mostly given over to workrooms for the gardeners who tended the plants in the small and large greenspaces in the huge Giu clan compound at the south edge of Laby Youl). He was going through a batch of freshly sealed prints, sorting them into piles. More of his imager work was pinned in clusters on two walls, other prints were hanging from a line strung up by a densely screened window where air could move across them and help dry them.

When he saw who had come in, Giulin got hastily to his feet. “Zem-trallen.” He looked apprehensive; shadows from the memories she evoked settled onto his face.

“Your parents have said I may speak with you.” Zelzony spoke slowly, his haunted mistrustful look dismayed her. With an abrupt movement of her hand toward the prints, she said, “I have an offer for you that concerns your skill with the imager.”

Giulin glanced at the sheets he still held, set them on the table, looked around the small cramped room. “Maybe we better talk in the court, it's generally empty this time of day … ah, Zem-trallen.”