The Phoenix in Flight (44 page)

“You’re going somewhere?” He was anxious and watchful, but
that was his nature.

“The Arkad and his furious liegeman want to be taken to
Arthelion, though they lied when they said it was their original destination.”

“The Panarchist secret base?”

“Most probably. Likely on behalf of the Arkad, but also
possibly because of—this.” She hefted the sphere, and watched Norton’s eyes
narrow in puzzlement at its behavior. “Which makes me wonder again just why
Hreem attacked a planet with no relative strategic importance... enough with
that now! My first thought was to have you take this object to the other base,
but the Eya’a are too agitated over it. Maybe they can figure out what it is
during the transit time to Arthelion.”

“Arthelion.” Norton’s voice was even, considering, but she
could sense his reluctance. But she had learned not to react to emotions that
people did not admit—unless they were a threat. “Vi’ya, I don’t think you
should go. The Covenant is iffy enough for the Sodality these days, no matter
where one goes, but the Mandala...”

“I foresee little trouble, not while returning a lost Arkad
to their keep, and I might be able to learn something of the matters that
concern us. It would be interesting to know how good Panarchist information is
about Hreem—and about Dol’jhar’s movements.”

Norton’s narrow brow furrowed, then he said slowly, “You
trust this Arkad not to simply hand you to the authorities?”

“You must remember I know something of him from Markham.
Though there’s little I can attest to in his credit—underneath Markham’s
indiscriminate praise, he sounds much like the typical Douloi—I do not expect
treachery.” Vi’ya dropped the sphere into her belt pouch.

Norton’s gaze followed the odd movement of the sphere, but
he said nothing.

“No. We will probably be safer than you, until you get the
Sunflame
operational and out of here. Hreem has some sort of new weapon—Marim saw
him blow away
Korion
with one shot.” Norton’s eyes opened wide. “And
Charvann is likely to fall to him soon. He’s already got the Node and the
Syncs. I’m afraid that he may get our location from the Panarchists. At that
point the existence of this base will be measured in hours unless it’s shut
down and thus undetectable.”

Norton nodded soberly.

“Even if Hreem is defeated, there’s still the danger from
the demon-touched Aerenarch Semion, who undoubtedly had the erring Krysarch
followed, and would leap at the chance to eliminate him under the guise of
action against Rifters. Have the primary crew of
Telvarna
report at
once, and run through status checks. I’ll take Ivard in Paysud’s place; it’s
time he made a run on his own. I’ll cover Fire Control myself. “She smiled. “Or
I may use the Arkad. We’ll see.”

Norton looked up in muted surprise. “Lokri?”

Vi’ya hesitated. “Tell him what I said, primary crew. I do
not want him here, trying his games on you. After this run, Reth Silverknife
takes his position permanently on
Telvarna
, and either he ceases playing
the fool or leaves.” She pointed toward the other wall. “Send someone to take
the two passengers aboard. Get them some gear first; they can’t live in their
boost suits, and they already stink. I go to appraise the Eya’a of our
departure.” She turned toward the door.

“Vi’ya—” Norton stretched out a hand, then dropped it
quickly to his knee. “I don’t trust this plan. I wish at least we could both
go.”

“Two ships would have as much effect as one against
Arthelion’s armaments—that is to say, none. Get the
Sunflame
repaired
and go to the other base. Fast.”

She walked past Norton’s grim, unhappy hound-face as he
reached for the intercom to convey her orders.

o0o

After smashing his glass, Brandon sank back, eyes closed.

Osri longed for sleep, but he ached too badly to relax, and
his mind wheeled unproductively from one unanswerable question to another.

When a short, round-bodied man appeared and said, “Come with
me, you two,” Osri had to try twice before getting to his feet. Brandon grunted
with effort, grimacing as he steadied himself against the wall.

“Is it possible to find out what’s going on?” Osri asked as
the man led them rapidly down a low-roofed tunnel.

“Vi’ya’s given the order,” the man said cheerfully over his
shoulder, green eyes avid with curiosity. “You’re off.
Telvarna’s
goin’
to the Mandala.”

“Off... ?”
Osri repeated, hating to speak voluntarily
to Rifters. It just underscored his sense of helplessness to find justice or
order or even sense. But now, for the first time in this endless nightmare,
there was a possibility of hope. “You mean we are going to Arthelion?”

“That’s it.” Their guide gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Wish
I was primary crew on
Telvarna.
Here.” He slapped a door open.

Osri smelled sweat from the man and stepped back, offended.
Then he looked down at his suit; after the harrowing hours he’d spent in it, he
knew he would stink as soon as he undressed. Would the Rifters offer them the
courtesy of a bath? Osri scowled at the grubby man.
Probably not.

Brandon went in first, and the man shoved in after him.
Inside was a tiny corridor, with four doors of varying sizes leading off. The
guide opened one, flicked a light on, and Osri stared into a long closet-room,
with all kinds of clothing and shoes either hanging from overhead rods or
folded on shelves.

“Help yourselves,” the man said. “Make it quick! No stores
on the
Telvarna,
and you’ve got about three weeks ship time, so you can
take one set to wear, and one to change into.”

Osri hesitated. His natural distaste at the prospect of
wearing clothing favored by Rifters had to be overborne by necessity: all he
had was the boost-suit he’d arrived in. While he hesitated, Brandon moved
forward with an air of purpose.

“Move yer butt,” the guide called out.
“Telvarna’s
ready
to lift now. Change right here. Leave them boost-suits on the floor.”

“But these suits are not ours to give,” Osri snapped,
outraged.

“Shuck ’em and leave ’em,” the guide replied with unimpaired
good humor. “You don’t need them expensive suits on the
Telvarna.
It’s a
trade, you’re gettin’ duds.”

“I would rather retain my suit—” Osri began.

The guide frowned and slid a hand into his tunic, but
Brandon forestalled him with a quiet, “The Navy replaces anything lost during
special ops. You should know that.”

Thus reminded they were going home, Osri gave Brandon a curt
bow. He then cast his eyes over the stores, his features rigid with disdain. By
the time he had selected a couple of plain gray tunics of military cut that
looked almost new, and some black trousers, both of which
appeared
to be
clean, Brandon had already stripped out of his boost-suit and was wearing a
light blue civilian tunic and loose pants stuffed into low boots, and he
carried a dun-colored jumpsuit over one arm. Osri therefore had to change with
the two waiting for him, the guide watching with unconcealed interest, which
did nothing to improve his temper. He jammed his feet into a pair of moccasins
which were too large as the guide once again exhorted him to speed up.

Then they were led at a brisk walk back up long tunnels to a
small room, where they found the scout Marim waiting, one bare foot propped
behind her against a wall as she chatted with a knot of colorfully dressed
Rifters. Next to her in a bulkhead was a hatch, with a small control console
next to it. On the console a green telltale glowed.

She straightened up with a bounce and chirped, “Here’s my
nicks. See you Shiidra-chatzers when!”

Laughing farewells and catcalls from the group, who moved
back to make passage for Osri and Brandon, giving them curious stares as they
passed.

Marim thrust herself between the two and grinned up at them.
“Vi’ya said I was to find you berths and break you in. Ship’s through here.”

She tapped the console and the hatch swung open. Beyond lay
a lock, and another hatch, its telltale also glowing green. Marim led the way,
carefully dogging the hatch behind them. Osri noted with distaste that the
soles of her feet were black.
Doesn’t she ever wash them?

They stepped through the far hatch into a large cavern,
perhaps three hundred by two hundred meters, its roof lost in darkness above
the lights hanging no more than ten meters above the smooth, melt-stone floor.
To their right a large metal door, its bottom concealed in a groove in the
floor, truncated the cavern, the roof descending to just above it where a
complexity of metal hid its top.

Dominating the center of the brightly lit space was a ship,
surrounded by crates and pallets of supplies. A tall, lanky individual with
swinging braids and a shorter, extremely pale redheaded boy were wrestling some
of these up a ramp into the lock.

Osri instantly recognized the ship type, staring in
amazement at the extensive modifications that had been made to it. It had
obviously started out as a Malachronte Columbiad: a medium-range vessel,
unchanged in basic design for hundreds of years, that was favored by the
Concilium Exterioris for planetary exploration.
My father flew in one of
these when he was a rogate.
A sharp pang of concern for his father flared
into anger when the little Rifter gave him a shove with her elbow.

“C’mon. The
Telvarna’s
not that pretty.”

Osri had built a model of a Columbiad when he was a boy.
This one looked like it had been reassembled from the parts of three model
kits. About one hundred meters long, its sharp nose and flowing, almost bulbous
underside, combined with the vestigial wings and basic delta shape, identified
it as a lifting body, designed for fast atmospheric flight. But where were the
viewports? Smooth blank hull flowed where the bug-eye ports should have been on
the underside of the nose; and what were all those faired nacelles for?

As they reached the lowered ramp under the side of the ship,
Osri’s curiosity overcame his reluctance to converse with Rifters. “What did
you do to this ship?”

Marim looked at him, puzzled. “Whaddya mean, what’d we do to
it? That’s the
Telvarna
.”

“I mean,” Osri said with some exasperation, “it obviously
used to be a Columbiad, but someone seems to have had some bizarre ideas about
ship design since it left the Malachronte Ways.”

She laughed, a bright, bubbling sound. “You nicks are all
used to shiny new ships, I guess. Just scrap ’em or sell ’em to Rifters when
the polish gets rubbed off.”

She slapped the hull affectionately as they entered the
lock, the ramp booming softly underfoot. They could hear the other two men
inside, and a third, much deeper voice.

“Telvarna’s
about four hundred years old, give or
take fifty. Don’t know what it started as, but it ended up as a rich nick’s
toy, till somebody decided they needed it more. Been with Rifters ever since.
They made most of the mods. Most of our work’s been on the inside, ’cept for
the aft cannon.”

She motioned them down the narrow corridor toward the nose.
As they made their way forward, Osri was forced to recognize in the underlying
decor the evidence of someone with both money and taste. In fact, the flowing
lines of the bulkhead seams and the contrasting geometric metal inlays in the
hatches were a clear example of the Archaeo-Moderne style that had been popular
in the reign of Burgess III, 150
years before. He could also see what he
was coming to think of as the Rifter touch, in some of the cruder—but still, he
was forced to admit, neatly done—modifications. Cabling, compute-node accesses,
piping, and less identifiable machinery were welded or bolted to the bulkheads
without regard for the overall effect.

Marim hopped through the last hatch to the bridge. The
consoles still maintained the familiar collegial U-shape of civilian vessels—captain’s
console at the rear, the rest in two rows on either side facing in—but two had
been added. They sat where the down-looking viewports would have been
originally. Whatever those consoles were for, the people at them would have
trouble seeing the main viewscreen.

But when Marim hopped out of the way so that Osri could see
the center of the bridge, he found the viewscreen above the captain’s console,
facing forward.

His training in navigation forbade Osri to overlook the
obvious efficiency with which the bridge of the
Telvarna
had been
modified—and somehow that made him feel even angrier. He snapped a look
Brandon’s way, to find him surveying the bridge with an odd, almost pained
expression, which vanished as Marim turned around and waved her arms proudly in
a wide circle.

“This is it—where the action is. You’ll see the rest of the
ship when I show ya your bunks and such.” She grinned at Osri without malice.
“Not that
you’re
likely to be seen much up here.
Telvarna’s
small.
Can’t take useless passengers, so we’ve got to fit you in. Already got a
hotshot navigator, so you, Schoolboy, are gonna give Montrose a hand in the
galley so’s Porv can stay an’ help shape the
Sunflame
back.”

“And
you,”
she elbowed Brandon in the ribs, “will be
jack-hand, and if we hit trouble, maybe take Jakarr’s spot.”

Brandon flashed a brief smile in answer to her grin.
“Jack-hand is a type of general help?”

She nodded vigorously. “So, stow your gear—”

Brandon raised a hand to stop her. “Another question. What
was Jakarr’s position in the crew?”

“Fire Control!” She jerked a thumb at one of the added
consoles. And, misinterpreting the question that raised his brows, she added,
“He was an acid-faced blit, but fast on the lazplaz, and ’sides, Vi’ya liked
him here to keep an eye on him.” She paused, casting a thoughtful glance around
the bridge, then she grinned at Brandon. “Just realized, it’s goin’ to be
fun
with him gone, and your pretty face sittin’ there.”