The Phoenix in Flight (56 page)

The grips of her jac were covered with some sort of rough,
scaly substance, nearly worn through in a couple of places. The trigger had
been polished by years of use, but the black-box finish of the finned radiants
around the aperture was flawless.
It’s definitely a Rifter’s weapon,
she
thought.
The parts that matter well maintained, but no resources wasted on
appearance. I wonder if he sees that.

As they reached the lock, Montrose was still adjusting his
harness, which enabled him to carry his weapon at his side yet swivel it up to
firing position instantly. Vi’ya slapped the control and, as the doors opened
to reveal the dim-lit forest outside, waved her weapon at Brandon in an ironic
gesture. “Lead the way.”

The ramp boomed softly underfoot as they descended. The
Telvarna’s
hull pinged and creaked as it cooled. Greywing could feel the warmth on the
back of her neck as she reached the ground.

At the base of the ramp Vi’ya stopped. The Eya’a emerged and
glided down the ramp, their feet making no sound on its metallic surface. They
moved swiftly in the twilight, their faceted eyes seeming to gather and
concentrate the dim light, like liquid-filled diamonds. As they joined Vi’ya
she led the group away from the ship.

Brandon took a broad step away from the Eya’a. The rest of
the crew ignored them, other than taking care not to come in physical contact
with them as they traversed the grassy sward toward the gazebo. The trees
loomed immense, their massive, seamed umber trunks so vast that twenty big men
could not have joined hands around them, so tall that from their base one could
not see the top. They had no branches for the first hundred feet or so above
the ground, so the path had the feeling of a colonnade bordered by massive
living pillars.

Ivard’s steps lagged as he peered upward. When Greywing
caught up with him, he said in a hushed voice, “I didn’t know there were trees
so large.”

Greywing tilted her head back to look up into the dimming
sky through the interlaced branches overhead. “We sure never saw this at home,
did we?”

“Home,” Ivard said, his lip curling. “Home’s Dis.”

And if someone shoots this captain and Lokri takes over?
Or someone worse?
Greywing thought, but she didn’t say anything. Home to
her meant where you were born. Nothing more. Home like Ivard meant it—well,
there was no meaning for that anymore. Like justice, it was just a word you
used for something convenient.

Maybe Ivard somehow knew what she was thinking, or maybe he
just decided he didn’t need to walk by his sister. He rushed forward again,
looking around so fast that he nearly tripped on the uneven ground.

Montrose also took in the scenery with evident pleasure. In
contrast, Lokri sauntered ahead, as if bored. Directly in advance of him Vi’ya
and the Eya’a moved as a self-absorbed unit.

“These trees were planted by the first Exiles,” Brandon told
Ivard. “It’s said that some of them were seedlings on Lost Earth.”

“If trees have memories,” Montrose’s voice rumbled in his
chest, “then these are the only living things in the Thousand Suns to remember
the sunlight of the mother of humankind.”

Lokri looked askance the Krysarch’s way, but got no
reaction. The ordered ranks of the forest, scattered with understory trees, low
brush and occasional flowering bushes, appeared peaceful. After five days of
controlled ship’s air, the scents around them were strong, exciting.

Montrose sneezed. “Just my luck,” the big physician said,
when Ivard laughed. “We land on just about the most Earthlike planet in the
Thousand Suns, and I get skipnose.”

Greywing’s head clogged, but she could still smell the
resinous duff underfoot and the heady scent of the flowers. What would it be
like to have these the familiar scents of home?
If Lost Earth smelled like
this, why did they leave?

Brandon’s body stiffened and he stopped walking. Greywing
followed his gaze. Some time ago, an immense branch had fallen from one of the
vast trees, its bulk broken on a boulder. Duff had mounded up on it, supporting
the growth of understory trees and brush. In the deep shadow underneath it,
eyes gleamed. She squinted. A long, blunt muzzle, a deep-chested black-and-tan
body resolved.

Brandon took a step toward the dog. It vanished. Brandon’s
hand went out, then dropped to his side.

Vi’ya looked back with an air of wary question.

“That’s one of them!” exclaimed Ivard. “It looked just
like...

“Such a loyal animal.” Lokri’s voice was acid, causing Ivard
to shrink in on himself.

Brandon shook his head, not in answer to Lokri but as if
dispelling a memory. He hefted his jac and walked on.

As they emerged from the forest and approached the gazebo,
Greywing wondered if the Krysarch was fighting the same curious sense of
unreality that she was. He must have played here as a boy, maybe organizing his
nick friends into teams, Marines against the Shiidra, like Greywing and the
others had before they got to their tenth birthdays and were sold off to the
combines.

Or did they play Navy captains against Rifters?

Here he was, leading an armed gang of Rifters into the
Palace where he’d been born. Nothing seemed real anymore. She had a feeling
that when they left here—if they left—she would never really believe she had
ever set foot on the Mandala.

Overhead the first stars of evening appeared behind a faint
wash of high cirrus. The gazebo shone whitely against the darkening sky, rising
up out of a huddle of flowering shrubs and hedges. Its ornate latticework sides
shadowed the interior in mystery.

It was empty, the interior dusty and splattered with bird
droppings. Doves cooed under the eaves as they entered.

Lokri flashed interest, the first he’d shown since their
landing. “These tunnels widely used? Who’re we going to meet down there?”

“Very few people know about them,” Brandon replied. “The
House computer maintains and runs the old transport system mainly so that the
dogs can move freely about the Archipelago. Maintenance and rangers use
aircars.” He looked around the gazebo, eyes narrowed. Seeking something?

“Galen and I searched for older tunnels. My first dog, Bani,
showed us one once, opening into the Palace Minor. We showed it to my father.
Turned out his first dog had shown him it when he was our age.” He smiled
reminiscently. “I guess it was sort of a family tradition.”

“Sounds more like a family tradition for Rifters,” Lokri
drawled, “looking for bolt-holes.”

Brandon’s fingers moved over the woodwork, then under the decorative
carvings near the base of a roof support. “Here are the controls.”

Lokri and Ivard found themselves inside a circle of light
about eight feet across. A gentle chime sounded. They backed out of the circle
hastily. The floor rose smoothly on a slender pillar and a second platform
filled the hole as the former floor integrated itself seamlessly into the
ceiling above.

Brandon motioned them onto the platform. then tapped the
pillar, and the platform sank noiselessly, stopping on a raised dais in a large
chamber. Its cement walls were smooth and darkened with age; there was a faint
damp smell. A short flight of stairs led downward, and a ramp gave access for
automated loaders. A tunnel stretched away into gloomy distance, two parallel
strips of metal on the floor glinting in the dim light.

They clattered down the stairs, following Brandon to a
control console built into the wall near the tunnel opening. He keyed it to
life and entered his personal code. There was a brief, almost subliminal
flicker of light as the console scanned his retina. Greywing noticed Lokri
stepping back, his teeth showing briefly.

“Identity confirmed. Welcome, Krysarch Brandon.”

Ivard gripped his firejac as the emotionless voice in the
console echoed in the chamber. The cadence of its speech was natural, but
entirely neuter—there was no intimation of personality. The Eya’a made no move,
and Vi’ya watched without expression.

“Query. Status, defense systems, local and planetary.”

“All systems down, both passive and reactive. Critical links
destroyed per standing orders.”

Brandon frowned at the console. The others waited, Lokri
smiling sardonically.

“They took down the defense system to deny it to the
invaders,” Brandon said. “
Telvarna
is safe from detection.”

Greywing’s insides tightened. So it was true: Arthelion had
fallen.

“Query. Status, local security systems,” Brandon asked.

“Passive systems active, with exceptions. Active systems
down. Canine system severely limited by hostile action. Thirteen dogs lost to
date.”

“Damn it,” Brandon whispered. Then, to Greywing’s surprise,
he chuckled, although the sound was sour. “Not a very good score for the
invaders,” he said.

Then, quickly: “Command. Cancel surveillance from this
location, internal and external. Cancel stored images.”

“Canceled. Canceled.”

He turned to the Rifters. “The systems are still gathering
information, but the machines that tie it all together are down. I’ve made sure
no one can see us here if the system comes back up. It sounds like the dogs are
in hiding.” He turned back to the console. “Is my father in residence?”

“This system does not have that information.”

“Explain.”

‘Numerous internal identification sensors have been
disabled. He has not been detected by the remaining ones.”

“Why were the sensors disabled?”

“This system does not have that information.”

Brandon shook his head in frustration. “There’s no way to
tell if any of the Family are here or not. I’ll see if I can get some
information on activity within the Palace.” He turned back to the console.
“Status, housekeeping systems.”

“Housekeeping systems are operational at this time.
Authorized access to services continues in the Rouge, Phoenix, and Aleph-Null
quadrants. Manual access to comestible, clothing, and hygiene services by
unauthorized personnel in the Ivory quadrant and Palace Minor has been enforced
by recoding. Other systems are still secure.”

“Identify locations of unauthorized personnel.”

“Most internal sensors in the Ivory quadrant and Palace
Minor are inoperative. Repair functions are being hindered, but alternate
circuits are being established. Current patterns of manual housekeeping
requests indicate predominant unauthorized activities confined to Palace Minor
and upper sublevels of Ivory wing of Palace Major.”

Brandon paused, rubbing a finger across the face of the ring
he wore. “Are transport activities accessible to unauthorized personnel?”

“No.”

“Send a carrier to this location, eight persons.”

“Acknowledged. ETA two minutes.”

He said, “There’s an odd pattern here. The invaders seem to
have cleared all the servants and other personnel out of the residence—the
Palace Minor—and the quadrant of the Palace Major that includes the residence.
Is that a Rifter custom before looting a place?”

“As if there’s any universal Rifter custom other than
anarchy.” Montrose chuckled, a rumble in his big chest that Greywing found
comforting. “But no, few are that well organized, or have that much control
over their fellows.”

Vi’ya spoke. “That is Dol’jharian custom,” she said.
“Outsiders are not permitted access to any area frequented by a Dol’jharian
noble. Nothing will have been touched.”

Brandon stared at her, an angry flush high on his cheeks.
“You think that Eusabian himself has taken up residence in the Palace Minor.”

The Eya’a shifted position subtly, their faceted gazes
unwavering on the Krysarch.

“He swore a paliach against your father, did he not?”

“Yes.”

“Taking possession of his enemy’s keep would be a part of
it. I would guess that the other area is for the occupation administrators.”

Brandon tightened a fist, then dropped his hands. “So we
have two choices of destination,” he continued. “I know the Palace Minor best,
and can direct you to any number of treasures there once I’ve had my shot at—”

Vi’ya took a step toward him. “We are not here to aid you in
your revenge. Our deal is simple. You can look for your family in the time it
takes us to get information and loot. The
Telvarna
will need a lot of
work, maybe more than we can afford.”

Brandon said, “I meant my search. Anyway, the sublevels of
the Ivory quadrant the computer referred to are a maze of corridors and rooms,
some very old—in fact, Galen and I once found some old Hegemonic detention
cells that had been converted to storage. There might be some prisoners there.”

“And?” Lokri interjected, looking interested. He rubbed his
thumb against two fingers in an age-old gesture. “The loot?”

“The Ivory quadrant of the Mandala has the aspect of
autonomy, which is associated with the arts. Is there much of a market for fine
art among Rifters?”

Montrose chuckled. “Some of the most passionate collectors
I’ve ever known are Rifters.”

“If you know the right broker,” said Vi’ya, “there’s nothing
more profitable.”

“Good. Then our goals run parallel. The antechamber to the Hall
of Ivory should yield a stunning profit. The transport I’ve summoned will take
us directly there. We’ll get no help from the house system, but neither will
the enemy.”

A puff of air from the tunnel announced the arrival of the
carrier, a long, low sled-like contrivance with a streamlined fairing at each
end and flanged wheels of some dark substance that fit onto the metal strips in
the floor. In the center of the sled was an open space partly filled by a cage.

Lokri let out a laugh. “Wheels in grooves!”

Ivard breathed an admiring “Oh!” and jumped in. “They’re
called tracks, Lokri,” he said. “I’ve seen pictures of this sort of thing, but
never in person.” He tapped the cage. “Is this for the dogs? Will we see any?”