Paradise Drift

  “Oh, crap,” Beka said. “Two pings—not Rommie but Ujio. He’s on us, probably in seconds.”

  Harper sighed, leaning hands on knees. “Can the three of us take him?”

  “Not without weapons,” Beka said. She turned to Cyn. “You?”

  “Nothing. Taken at the dock.”

  “Then how did Ujio get that sword?”

  Beka shook her head. “Another bontemp? Nothing stops Ujio. That I learned to my cost years ago. Absolutely nothing.”

  Memory: The last chase, through an elegant Drift—and the sliding door that shut between them.

  Standing, breathing, just meeting his eyes for a fleeting second. She had nowhere to run, no weapons, and awaited death—

  She shook her head. Hard.

  Silence, as soft percussive music played round the fountain, through which the glowing dark balls hissed in a waterfall, formed, hissed again.

  Rommie-ship watched Tyr in Dylan’s command chair.

  Her voice was crisp, emotionless: “Warbot deployment aborted, battle stations on-line. Intruders at eight light-seconds and closing. Drift defenses are fairly good at one-half light-second and below; limited supply of autonomous missiles.”

  From the blanked screen communicating with the Drift came the reedy voice of a Than. “Andromeda Ascendant, this is Paradise Control. Release on the mark…three…two…one.”

  The giant warship shuddered gently. On the screen, harsh shadows sprang up in the widening gap between the Andromeda and the Drift lock.

  Captain Hunt will have to take the luck of the arena, it appears, thought Tyr. No doubt with a little help from his crew. He glanced up at Rommie. “Take us out to one-quarter light-second; get me Drift Defense.” He hesitated, smiled faintly. “No, cancel that. You talk to Drift Defense, and keep that vid monitor blanked. I don’t think my appearance would be very reassuring at this point.”

  On-screen Rommie looked abstracted for a moment. Tyr found the programmed convention indicating attention elsewhere irritating.

  Rommie blinked, then turned to him. “Drift Defense requests our assistance defending the planetside aspect—their fixed weapons are shorter range in that direction to avoid friendly-fire incidents against the planet.”

  Tyr studied the tactical display, mirrored from his usual weapons console to the command console, and nodded. “Acknowledge. Take us here,” he said, tapping at the screen.

  The warship’s motion accelerated; the Drift dwindled astern. Tyr sat back, folded his arms, and glanced up at Rommie in the side screen. “Well? What now?”

  Rommie said, “My avatar is on the way to Dylan as we speak.” She flashed out, and Tyr stayed where he was, frowning at the fast-dwindling Drift and thinking.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  My Roman ancestors said “Give the kludges circuses, and they won’t notice you taking their bread.”

  —NERO TZAR-JAGUAR,

  CY 9865,

  TWO MONTHS BEFORE HIS ASSASSINATION

  After they’d traversed, in tight guard formation, the entire length and width of the Drift, Torbal and his guards halted Dylan in what appeared to be the outer office of a lab—a small, plain room with a bank of windows down one wall, benches at either side. No tables, nothing Dylan could grab and use.

  Not that there was much he could do against five enemies, four of them holding various weapons, the safeties all off.

  Dylan glanced around, remembering being wafted past this office on the tour; he’d gained the impression that the windows looked down rows of laboratories in which legal experimentation was carried out. Maybe they were, here. But somewhere nearby had to be Alphyra Kodos’s secret labs.

  “Here you go,” Torbal said, indicating a suit of white clothes lying on a bench. “Please change into your costume.”

  “What is that?” Dylan asked.

  Torbal gestured, grinning. “Why, it’s your High Guard dress whites.”

  Dylan picked up the jacket, and looked in disgust at the blinding white fabric, the gaudy gold trim. And the stripes indicating an admiral. He glanced back over his shoulder. “No one in the High Guard has ever worn anything like that. Except in bad vids.”

  “And bad vids is the only view that our paying customers ever got. They won’t believe your credentials, but they’ll believe that outfit. Put it on.”

  Dylan hesitated, thinking of his comlink in the sleeve of his real tunic jacket.

  Torbal laughed, a smug, pleased laugh. “Oh, trust me. You won’t have time to feel stupid in it. Now move!” He motioned to one of the henchmen, who stepped forward with his weapon, which emitted a faint, high hum.

  Nerve joker.

  Dylan realized if he didn’t make any fuss, they might just leave his clothing where it was. In which case he might be able to get back to his link. But if he made them suspicious…

  So, with the grinning Torbal and the impassive guards watching his every move, he stripped off his uniform and put on the ridiculous costume, which at least was sturdily made. It didn’t quite fit—he realized it was probably used in various sorts of dramatic scenarios.

  Just as he was about to lay his High Guard tunic down he felt the comlink buzz him, but he was not about to give this grinning goon any sign of corns outside their control; they’d already taken the Drift chit away in the professional search the henchminions had done in the private lift before opening the doors again.

  So he dropped the tunic on top of his pants, bending only to remove the force lance from the belt.

  One of the henchmen stirred, but Torbal said with one of his smug chuckles, “Leave it. He can play with it in the arena. Without a power cell, it might not do much, but then High Guard captains are supposed to be innovative, eh? Meanwhile, our customers will all expect the High Guard captain to have a force-lance at his side.”

  Dylan felt, and repressed, the urge to use it innovatively on those perfect white teeth, but he remained impassive, unresponsive—unthreatening. He was surrounded by alert goons, with weaponry he couldn’t outfight with his hands.

  Laugh away, you jackass, he thought, regarding Torbal.

  “Now.” Torbal extended his hand toward a fresher frame in a little alcove near the door to the labs.

  Dylan looked at it, wondering what they might want to clean off after leaving the labs. Maybe he didn’t really want to know.

  In silence Dylan stepped through the fresher frame, and felt nanobots whisk away all the dirt molecules he’d accumulated during the uncounted hours he’d been on this Drift. He was now clean, the ridiculous costume (he refused to think of it as a uniform) crisp and pure white when he emerged.

  Torbal smirked, glanced with complacent habit at his own reflection in the glass window, and then stepped behind Dylan. “Very well. Captain,” he said, with mock dignity. “It’s time for you to join the fun and games.” He walked to the featureless wall, pressed his chit against what seemed to be just smooth plasteel, then a silent door opened, onto yet another private lift, this one small.

  Torbal lifted a hand, gave an ironic nod of invitation. When Dylan hesitated, gauging the situation, a nudge from behind reminded him of the henchmen. Armed henchmen.

  They all crowded into a lift meant for three at most—Dylan, Torbal, and four big goons. The ride was short, but not short enough; Torbal’s shoulder pressed into Dylan’s back, and his breath wafted over Dylan’s own shoulder, smelling unpleasantly of stale alcohol. Dylan realized that these people, too, had been up for far too many hours. Something to keep in mind; when people were tired, it was easier to make a mistake.

  When they had been drinking, it was doubly easy to make a mistake.

  The lift opened, and the inrushing air smote him with a complexity of smells and sounds: steel, oiled machinery, animals, sweat. That despite the magnum air scrubbers he could hear vibrating in the walls.

  Behind the sounds of the air machines was a continuous low sound, almost more pressure than audible—a roar, but curiously tactile, and as they walked down a narrow
tunnel, Dylan realized they were underneath a vast amphitheater.

  “When you get into the arena, don’t bother yelling,” Torbal said conversationally. “The sound is damped, and all the audience will hear will be screams or shouts, depending on what the sound engineers feel like assigning to your persona. But you can be sure we will be listening to you, every sound you make. And what I will be listening for is ‘Kodos wins.’ We will pull you right out, and take you right to your ship, along with Director Kodos. If you renege, you will go right back again.”

  He paused. Dylan said nothing, just kept scanning the environment: tunnels, unmarked except for inset lights in colored patterns, sounds, air currents.

  “Understand?” Torbal said, pausing before a big steel door.

  Dylan waited, hands ready. Torbal flicked a look upward, and the four henchmen fanned efficiently around in a semicircle, just out of Dylan’s reach.

  Torbal laughed. “Have fun,” he said, and keyed the steel door with his chit.

  A sudden, violent shove from behind sent Dylan stumbling out onto the arena floor. An enormous roar smote him, almost stunning him, and he almost stumbled again as he looked around, saw an oval arena with tier after tier of faces, all of them shouting, talking, laughing, or in the case of nonhumans, making the equivalent noises.

  “… and here to accept the Deadly Duel Challenge, none other than Captain Di-i-i-i-i-i-i-lan Hunt, of the famed A-a-a-a-a-a-a-ndromeda Ascendant!”

  The echoes from the smarmy announcer voice had just died away when the hidden speakers blared an ear-slamming rumble of drums. Then a fanfare from what sounded like two hundred trumpets, and across from Dylan a gate slowly opened. A huge creature covered mostly in dull grayish blue scales, about nine feet tall, with a face like a boar, lurched out, swinging a six-foot flail.

  Dylan watched the approach of the creature, mentally naming it the Blue Menace. Its gait was slow, deliberate, as it stomped down big, flat, taloned feet below short legs muscled like the gnarls of an ancient oak.

  Dylan fingered his force-lance, then dropped his hand away. He might have to use it for close-in work—from the looks of that blue hide, his own hand would probably break on it—but until then, it was useless.

  By the time the creature had stomped within ten meters, its small, pale blue eyes a steady, manic glare, he decided his only possible weapons were speed and wit.

  The Blue Menace halted about five meters away, lifted the flail, and swung it overhead. Dylan only gave the weapon the briefest glance, enough to gauge its reach, then transferred his attention wholly to the creature’s eyes.

  Once, twice, thrice the flail circled overhead, the sound a deep, humming whoosh that the arena speakers picked up and broadcast back, so loud the hairs lifted on the back of Dylan’s neck.

  The crowd cheered, loving it.

  Then the Menace brought the flail down in a violent arc toward Dylan’s position. Dylan dropped flat, angling his head so he could watch the Menace’s reaction, and sure enough, the mighty fist tried to alter the trajectory of the swinging flail, which caused the weapon’s arc to wobble, pulling the creature into a stumble.

  One: it’s as stupid as it looks.

  Two: even more important, it’s not all that practiced with the flail.

  So Dylan leaped to his feet, sauntering backward, and as the Menace came on, he dodged this way and that, lunging close and then backing away, to get the Blue Menace moving too quickly for its size, all while the flail continued its dangerous circles, the amplified sound now a whistle-hum that seemed to jitter right down through Dylan’s bones. Two or three times the Menace nearly reached him with that continuously swinging flail, and from the considerable backdraft, Dylan could feel that a single misstep would be his last. There would be no surviving a single hit from that flail.

  In and out, side to side, and then, just after an enormously powerful downstroke, Dylan leaped in, pulled his force-lance, and jabbed the creature in what he’d assume to be its solar plexus.

  There was no visible effect—the armored hide was exactly as tough as it looked—but the Menace seemed to be surprised, and enraged, at being touched. It emitted a low, metal-ripping growl and stepped in, swinging the flail, and again Dylan moved just inside that swing, poke, and away, before the Menace could alter the force of the arc.

  Once more, the Menace’s growl a roar of rage, and this time Dylan did not sidestep but dove flat out between the mighty legs.

  The Menace bent to follow him, an instinctive move, just as the flair hit the top of its arc—

  And it stumbled. Dylan somersaulted to his feet. He threw himself against its side, which felt like throwing himself against a steel wall, but the nudge was enough to send the creature falling, the flail whipping around its arm and upper body, binding the arm to its side.

  Dylan leaped on the Menace’s back, thrust his force-lance under the chain, and twisted. The Menace howled ineffectually.

  In the stands, the crowd howled as well, some cheering, others hooting.

  Black-clad minions emerged from a door, efficiently circling the two. Dylan did not spare the masked faces more than a glance; he saw the electric goads in their hands, and so when he was motioned away, he pulled his lance free and backed up. He was not going to invite a jolt from one of those goads if he could help it.

  Two of the guards stayed on his either side, as the glutinous voice of the Announcer boomed, “And the first win to the captain! What do you think, folks, was that too easy? Shall we give the captain more of a challenge?”

  An enormous roar buffeted the air.

  Dylan started to follow the minions taking the stumbling Menace away, but he was motioned in place by one of those holding the goads. “Just stay there, man, unless you want a tickle to the nervous system to get you ready for your next.”

  Dylan said nothing, but turned away, using what time he had to get control of his breathing, and to study the stands. He had to escape, but how? The shimmer of some kind of force field sparkled all along the lower levels of the stands, and inside the door, through which the minions were taking the Blue Menace, he could see a number of other minions, all carrying what appeared to be some sort of weapon.

  The drums and trumpets sounded again, and the minions backed away. Dylan turned, and from another door emerged what appeared to be two giant beetles, their carapaces a smooth, polished brown, their many legs hissing and clicking as they scuttled directly toward Dylan.

  Their heads were small, eyes faceted—and from each head extended two moving feelers that appeared, Dylan realized with a sick sensation, to function as pincers.

  It did not take them long to reach him; he glimpsed something greenish and sticky on the ends of those waving pincers, and then it was showtime.

  Now he snapped out the force-lance to its full extent, even though it had no power. There was only one strategy to use with these things: leverage.

  They came at him from each side, pincers waving. Whirling the force lance in a practiced figure eight, he knocked the ends into each head.

  The bugs promptly rolled up into meter-high balls, which then rolled his way. He resisted the urge to run, but waited until they were close, then leaped over one, just barely clearing it, and landed just beyond, whirling to see the balls clump together.

  Snap! Snap! They sprang open and charged.

  Dylan stepped forward, whipping the force-lance around, but this time the bugs skittered away, circling around to attack from either side. Dylan rapidly backed away, his breathing coming fast, his head pounding. A quick glance to either side. One bug was slightly faster than the other.

  When those groping feelers were almost in arm’s reach he feinted with the force-lance, and when the bug jinked, he whirled the lance down in a tight circle, got the end under the edge of the carapace, and with a grunt of effort heaved.

  The bug fell, legs twitching wildly, both ends struggling to snap together.

  He heard the clicking of legs just behind, leaped to the side,
and this time the jolt of adrenaline at the horrifying closeness of the second bug propelled the lance under the second bug, and he upended it, too. Then he stood, panting, leaning on the extended force lance. The fight had not been long, but he was desperately thirsty. Bad sign.

  “So Captain Hunt doesn’t like baby Fzztr? Ba-a-a-a-d captain!”

  “Booooo!”

  “Looks like the captain is getting bored!”

  “BOOOOOO!”

  “Should we send him someone more interesting?”

  “YAHHHHHHH!”

  The doors slid open, and this time it was three humans who ran out. Three, Dylan thought. Interesting choice: four might seem a gang, but three apparently was a fair fight?

  “Go! Go! Go! Go!”

  The audience was hooting in unison.

  Dylan shut out the sound, the smell of the arena floor, everything but the three big men coming at him now. All three wore gaudy gold and black, and it looked as if they had some sort of armor under their glittering tunics. Right, then, body blows were out.

  All three gripped long bos, the obvious equivalent of an extended force stick. Three on one. Two questions to be resolved, Dylan thought, as they slowed and moved to surround him: one, were they trained?

  Their hands were placed correctly, the staffs held at a threatening angle.

  Trained, then. Second: had they been trained to work as a team?

  The first came in swinging, and as Dylan blocked he whirled, ducked, brought his downward end up between the other two—

  Clack! Both reached to block, and their staffs clacked together.

  Dylan grinned.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The thing about humans is that their enemy will slander them, their friend will rush the news to them—leaving them wondering which one is which.

  —WAYFINDER FIRST ORDER HASTURI,