The Phoenix in Flight (70 page)

“Don’t worry,
Captain,”
said Barrodagh. His emphasis
on the incorrect title worried Anderic. He couldn’t tell whether it was sarcasm
or not. “Tallis made a serious mistake. It is possible that the
Satansclaw
will
soon be yours.”

Anderic almost laughed, but held it. Barrodagh’s grim
expression did not lighten. “Either that, or we shall all be dead very shortly.
Or wishing we were.”

At Anderic’s attempt to speak, Barrodagh held up a hand
imperiously. “There is no time for explanation. The Avatar is waiting for us.
You already know a little of the customs of Dol’jhar. Do not, under any
circumstances, speak to him unless he first addresses you. Do not look at him
unless he speaks to you, but do not look away. Keep him in the corner of your
vision so you can respond instantly if he addresses you.” He paused. “If you
are as clever as I think you are, and can follow my lead, you will survive and
prosper. If not, I have no use for you anyway.” With that he motioned for
Anderic to follow him out of the room.

As they walked, Barrodagh explained what had happened.
So
Tallis’s logos wasn’t good enough,
Anderic thought with triumphant and
gratified surprise, a surprise that bloomed to horrified delight as Barrodagh
described in matter-of-fact terms the extent of the Avatar’s attempt to stop
the Krysarch’s escape.

Their path took them outdoors, on a curving gravel walkway
bounded by tall hedges and trees silhouetted against a bright night sky.
Anderic stopped involuntarily as he saw the reality behind the Bori’s words. To
the south a long string of faint, blue-white points of light was slowly rising
past a diffusing glow sprinkled with bright splotches and flares. Above it,
several contorted lines of light sprawled across the night sky like some alien
alphabet.

Now, for the first time, the Rifter truly understood the
nature of the people he was dealing with. The chips on the Dol’jharian language
had explained at length about the culture, trying to make some of the phrases
and idioms comprehensible, but nothing had prepared him for this.
They blew
up the Node and wrecked the S’lift, just to stop one ship—one man.

At an impatient grunt from their Tarkan escort, Anderic
hurried to catch up with Barrodagh, who had not slowed his pace. They rounded a
curve, and there was a tall, heavy-shouldered man in black standing in front of
a bulky mass of statuary, which seemed to consist of a bunch of snakes and
people. The man was facing the statue, staring either at it or at the display
in the sky above. His fingers were busy with something. As Barrodagh halted
them at a respectful distance, Anderic saw that it was some sort of cord, its
sinuous writhing in the man’s strong fingers mirroring the agony of the statue
before him.

They stood in silence for what seemed a very long time.

o0o

Tallis stumbled along the gravel path between two black-clad
guardsmen, trying to hold his nightshirt closed. A few minutes ago the door to
his suite had crashed open and the two guards had dragged him out of bed
without any explanation. He suspected neither spoke Uni, and he didn’t speak
Dol’jharian beyond the impressive-sounding curses he’d memorized. He didn’t
think those would be any use now.

His mind, still fogged with sleep, seethed with fearful
conjecture. Had Eusabian finally decided that the death of the Krysarch wasn’t
enough? Was he, Tallis Y’Marmor, to be sacrificed for failing to supply a body?
The spectacle in the southern sky added another set of worries. What had
happened to the Node? Was the
Satansclaw
safe?

Then, as they rounded a curve in the path and he saw
Barrodagh and Anderic standing together with another, taller man whose back was
turned, his anxiety turned to anger.
I should have killed Anderic. He’s been
plotting with that slug Barrodagh.

The tall man turned around. It was Eusabian. The lights
lining the gravel pathway threw his features into strong relief. The contorted
statuary behind him and the fluorescent destruction in the sky above gave him
the appearance of a figure out of some fearful legend.

The cool night breeze caressed Tallis’s skin as though the
flimsy shanta-silk nightshirt weren’t there, every hair on his body prickled
with fear.

“I had decided to forgive you for the blemish in my paliach
your action at Warlock created,” said Eusabian, his voice soft. “As my aide
pointed out, it was Hreem’s foolish boast that warned Charvann in time to make
the Krysarch’s escape attempt possible.”

Tallis noted the black cord twisting between Eusabian’s
fingers as he spoke.

“But a few hours ago Krysarch Brandon nyr-Arkad invaded the
Palace, carried off an important prisoner, and then escaped. My paliach is
incomplete, my will has been defied, and tremendous damage done to what is now
mine.”

Tallis trembled as comprehension of the enormity of his failure
flooded his nerves. He glanced at the night sky, now understanding what had
happened.
They destroyed the Node to try to stop him. There’s no chance at
all for me.

“It is only because of your brilliant piloting in that
action, despite its apparent failure, that I am speaking to you now. I do not
destroy talent needlessly. Is there any reason you can offer why you should not
die?”

Tallis’s mind froze at the beginning of decision in the
Avatar’s face—the abrupt movement from Barrodagh. The significance of Anderic’s
presence, combined with Eusabian’s apparent ignorance of the logos, impelled
Tallis to a desperate gambit.

“Lord,” he replied. “I did not undertake to enter your
service lightly, for I know that Dol’jhar punishes failure as severely as it generously
rewards success. To ensure that my service would please you, I installed a
logos in the
Satansclaw,
containing the accumulated knowledge of the
greatest fighters of the past thousand years.”

He paused, welcoming with shivery panic the faint interest
in Eusabian’s face—and the frustrated anger on Barrodagh’s. “I do not plead
excuse on that account. The failure is still mine. But consider, Lord. If a
logos could not kill the Krysarch, who among your forces could have done any
better?”

He waved his hand at the display overhead, now fading away.
“The night sky here at the heart of your new kingdom bears witness to the truth
of my words.”

o0o

Barrodagh quickly smoothed his face, suppressing the violent
rage caused by Tallis’s pompous twaddle. He was forced to admit it was a
brilliant improvisation—its strength flowed from exactly the facets of the
Rifter captain’s personality that Barrodagh found so irritating: his love of
the grand gesture and grandiloquent speech.
He’s an Ur-bedamned actor at
heart and it may save his life.

There was nothing he could do but await the Avatar’s
decision. By offering Tallis the opportunity to plead his cause, Eusabian had
made it an affair of the
nar-pelkun turish
, the “unsheathed will” that
was the fundamental philosophical and emotional touchstone of the Dol’jharian
nobility. Any attempt Barrodagh made to influence his lord’s decision at this
point would be an infringement of this, and very likely fatal.

“Well said, Kyvernat Y’Marmor,” said Eusabian finally.

Barrodagh cursed mentally. The use of the Dol’jharian title
for captain indicated Eusabian’s acceptance of Tallis’s argument.

“A logos,” the Avatar continued musingly. “I have heard of
these devices. The Panarchists fear them greatly and have forbidden their use.
You apparently have a proper sense of what it means to serve Dol’jhar.”

Barrodagh’s spirits slumped further as he saw his careful
plans go awry. The Rifter next to him might now be a liability rather than an
asset.

“Were you aware of this, Barrodagh?”

“I only just found out, Lord.”

“I see.” Eusabian turned back to Tallis. “I have been told
that most people in the Thousand Suns abhor devices such as the logos. How did
your crew feel about this?”

“They did not know, Lord,” Tallis replied with obvious
reluctance, and Barrodagh began to see the way out of this disaster. “It spoke
to me via pinbeam, and I had optical filters implanted so only I could see its
visuals.”

Eusabian was silent. Finally he said, “You may have your
life, but I will not leave you your ship. Perhaps, in time, I will have another
for you.

“Y’Marmor is not to be killed,” he said to Barrodagh. “Let
him serve in the lowest position on his ship for a time as penance.”

He motioned to Anderic. “I assume that this would be your
suggested replacement for him?”

“He was the only one of the crew who realized the presence
of the logos. With the optical implants he could take over without the crew
learning about the device.”

The Avatar gestured from one Rifter to the other. “Take one
of Y’Marmor’s eyes and give it to this one.”

o0o

Anderic’s triumph at the promotion and his glee over
Tallis’s discomfiture altered in a single heartbeat to sick horror.
I can’t!
his mind shrieked, ghastly images from his Organicist childhood welling up.
But the dispassionate gaze of the Avatar was upon him, and he sensed
Barrodagh’s impatience.

Much stronger than childhood memory was the more immediate
one of the secretary’s death.

I don’t have any choice.
His study of Dol’jhar made
his situation clear: refusal of Eusabian’s promotion would be a mortal insult.
A quick death like the secretary’s would be the easiest outcome. Lingering pain
beforehand more likely.

But I don’t have to turn it on.

Oh, sure.
He could tell himself that, but the truth
was this. He couldn’t captain a destroyer during a war like the one now ripping
through the Thousand Suns.

But all that was for later. He bowed deeply, indicating his
acceptance of the boon.

As he bowed, the weight of the Emasculizer in his belt pouch
bumped against his leg. He glanced over at Tallis, who refused to return his
look, and remembered some of the little “dramas” Y’Marmor had so enjoyed.
Well,
Tallis, Luri is mine now,
he thought, anticipation kindling.
And I can
make sure that you never put the horns on me as I did with you.

As Barrodagh ushered him away from the presence of the Lord
of Vengeance, thoughts of the logos were already fading from his mind as
Anderic distracted himself with schemes of revenge for Tallis’s many slights.

He would make out fine. He always had.

o0o

Marim leapt up, snapping her fingers.
“Yow!”
she
crowed, making a gesture toward the screens that Osri had never seen before but
which he felt had to be obscene. She added, “Lick my radiants, nacker-nose!”

The tension on the bridge has snapped to celebration with
the intensity born of death defeated. A shrill ululation that raised the hairs
on Osri’s neck drifted out of the intercom from the engine room, a sound
entirely at odds with Jaim’s laconic nature.

Lokri grinned, cracking his knuckles and his neck. Then he
shut down his console with a careless swipe. “Good. Now to check out my loot.”

Marim whirled about to face Vi’ya. “What’s the take?”

“Damage?” Vi’ya inquired mildly, as if Marim had not spoken.

Marim’s small hands pounced birdlike across her board.
“Cerenkov suppression one hundred percent, fiveskip stable to zero-point-one.
Not too bad.”

Vi’ya said, “We’ve flown on worse. Let’s go home.”

“Vi’ya!” Marim hooted. “What’s the take? I wanna start
making out my shopping list.”

Vi’ya’s lips quirked. “You should ask the Arkad. I can’t
begin to estimate it.”

Brandon was smiling, color ridging his cheekbones. “The
Family’s been accumulating art for almost a thousand years, and I think Lokri
and Ivard accounted for most of it. Some of those items were literally
priceless.”

“Whoo-ee!” Marim slapped one of her feet up on her console
and wiggled her long toes. “Now I can hire me a Panarchy-lady to do my
toenails.”

“You’ll go broke first buying her nose-filters,” cracked
Lokri. “I’m going to check on the boy.”

Marim’s smile disappeared. “Comin’ with you.”

As they went out, Osri said formally, “Request permission to
leave the bridge.”

Vi’ya waved a hand, but before Osri could get up from his
pod, Montrose’s voice came over the intercom: “Brandon. The old man will not
sleep until he’s spoken with you.”

Osri felt a prickle of unreasoning anger, which mitigated
when Brandon said to him, “Come. Let’s see him together.”

Osri got up, distracted as he passed by the captain tapping
at her console. Above, the screen cleared to a view of space as the ship
dropped out of skip.

Vi’ya’s fingers moved with precision over the keys. Osri
paused. He could see the console he had vacated flickering in response as she
laid in a new course. Where was she taking them? His father would want to know.
But Brandon was already at the door, so Osri caught up in a few strides, trying
to ignore the watery feeling in his legs.

Montrose blocked their way to the sick bay. Osri stared up
into the broad, ugly face as the physician said, “He will live. He is awake
now, and asking for the Krysarch—”

With an apologetic glance his way, Brandon walked past the
physician and went into the cubicle. Osri braced himself to wait.

o0o

Brandon entered the tiny cubicle with soft footfalls.

Omilov lay on the bed gazing upward, his eyes focused
light-years beyond the ceiling. His shaved head was beaded with fine sweat, his
color chalky.

Montrose moved quietly to a corner, glanced at a small
console and tapped in numbers. At Brandon’s approach, Omilov’s gaze drifted
down and he moved slightly on the bed. Montrose went out. The door hissed shut
behind him.

“Sebastian,” Brandon murmured. “How do you feel?”