Paradise Drift

  THE MAD PERSEID, 212 AFC

  Delta sat on a chair, arms folded close to her chest, rocking back and forth.

  Neither Trance nor Rommie had expected her to react to the news of the Nietzscheans’ arrival like that. Both were hesitant, unsure what to do next—the woman’s suffering was so obvious, so internal.

  Trance gazed at her, face sad. Her luminosity seemed dimmed as she whispered nearly voicelessly, “Betrayed in so many ways.”

  “And still fighting the conditioning,” Rommie returned.

  On one of the video displays overhead a comlight flickered. The vid, until now blank, glowed into life. The smiling golden face of Torbal looked in at them. “Ah! Just who I wanted to see,” he said, his gaze singling out Rommie. “It’s time for you to visit your captain,” he added. “I’ll send an escort.”

  Delta’s head jerked up, and she gave Rommie a painful look, difficult to interpret. Then she said in a low voice, “I—I would help you if I could.”

  Rommie said, “It is time for me to rejoin my captain.” She turned to Trance, motioning toward Delta. “Help her, would you?”

  Trance nodded slowly, then stepped over to sit next to Delta.

  When the doors opened suddenly behind them and two obvious thugs, armed, stood there, one motioning to Rommie, she stepped between them. No one spoke.

  The doors shut and Delta put her hands up to her face. Tears squeezed between her fingers.

  Trance said soothingly, “It really is better if she goes to her captain.”

  Avatar Rommie felt the lift halt. Her scanner on the Drift system flashed her location to her: underneath the biggest of the sporting arenas, a small office, with two accessways, one public, one coded for private.

  The escort motioned her out, still in silence, but a moment later she recognized Torbal.

  “Ah, it is the young aide. A very beautiful young aide, I should mention. Your name?”

  “Ensign Rommie,” she said.

  Torbal gave her a benign grin. “I’m certain your qualifications for captain’s aide are…superlative.”

  Rommie thought of Beka, and how she’d have reacted to that little comment. She smiled.

  Torbal’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice became less smug and more speculative as he said, “Or there could be more to you than I first thought. What is your area of expertise, Ensign Rommie?”

  She realized at once that she was here as a hostage, perhaps to use against Dylan. She had to get to Dylan, that was her first priority, right up there tied with saving the ship.

  So if this guy didn’t want competence, he would get just what he wanted.

  She let her eyes round in fear, and she said, “My expertise? It’s—it’s etiquette and protocol.”

  Torbal’s satisfaction was almost palpable, certainly measurable. “Well! No doubt an important man like your captain Hunt must heed all those important details of who sits in what chair and when.” He paused, studying her, and she kept her eyes round, and looked about her, miming fear.

  Torbal seemed to reach a decision. “Your captain also seems to need incentive for his, ah, games. You may join him now.”

  She said, “Oh, thank you, sir.”

  Torbal chuckled again, a self-satisfied sound. “Oh, don’t thank me. Thank Captain Hunt. It’s very much his decision, Ensign. Very much so. Er, you might remember that, if you do not like what is about to happen, but just remind him Kodos wins. Just those two words. And all the, ah, regrettable things will go away.”

  She pressed her hands together, and gave him her best version of Trance’s most absent smile.

  Torbal seemed satisfied, and held out his hand.

  The door opened, and Rommie had to swiftly engage her sound dampers when the roar from over a thousand voices smote her. But she paid that no attention; alone in the middle of the arena stood Dylan, wearing a strange white garment of some sort, with smudges on it. He was pale, a welt forming on one side of his head.

  His grin, when he saw Rommie, was feral.

  She grinned back, giving him her rare, warship-going-into-battle smile.

  Overhead, the sound blared with the announcer’s voice. His hated voice, by now, manipulating the crowd: “… and so the captain struts to another win against our hapless challengers.”

  When Rommie drew near, Dylan said, “I take it this was not your choice?”

  Rommie said, “Ensign Rommie, reporting for duty, sir.”

  And Dylan knew she knew they were being listened to; as she turned to face the far sliding doors he turned as well. And after about ten seconds, she said, “Done. Found Torbal’s link. Now, whatever we say will sound like random sentences to him. Let him busy himself running decryption on it.”

  Dylan said, “My comlink is with my uniform, somewhere back inside.”

  “Right. Here’s what you need to know: the Nietzscheans have appeared through the Slipstream. Tyr and I are holding the ship with plenty of elbow room, as the admiral used to say. So far, the Nietzscheans just seem to be sitting there, using their presence as threat.”

  “They want Kodos,” Dylan said, as from the far gate a squad of armored warriors ran out, wearing exotic outfits that still protected them. The smallest was probably seven feet, and all of them broad and muscular. From the looks of their identical faces—broad, bony, impassive expressions—these were more of the Kodos experiments.

  “Bred for fighting, not for thinking,” Dylan said. “One of the offerings for the Nietzscheans.”

  “I think you’ll need this,” Rommie said. She slid her hand through a fold in her uniform, and removed the power cell to his force-lance, which she had been storing all this time within her so-called human skin.

  Moving up next to him, she handed it off, then she turned and whirled away, hands high—drawing attention momentarily, Dylan realized, as he palmed the power pack. Not that the secret would remain a secret long, he thought as the warriors arrived, halting on a subtle signal, then snapping out long, humming lances of their own.

  Dylan slapped the power cell into place, clicked the force-lance on, and felt it hum to life—a full charge. Giving him access to all the inventive (and strictly illegal) mods that Harper had dreamed up during long, dull passages across systems.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” she responded, and they both charged, Dylan’s force-lance sparking as he smashed his way through the first rank.

  Rommie whirled, ducked, gripped the arm of one warrior and threw him into his fellows. Two of the warriors spun, drilled and speedy, one knocking Dylan back, the other nearly decapitating Rommie. Dylan fell hard.

  The crowd went wild.

  Dylan rolled to his feet, gripped his lance, shading his head just before they were circled again.

  This time the two fought back to back, Dylan keeping his force-lance low, interfering with the warriors’ footing, and Rommie speeding between them, just fast enough for them not to catch her.

  Dylan took a hit against the ribs, grunted, thrust his lance—and knocked the warrior back. He glanced over his shoulder at Rommie. “Can you keep this up if you have to go into battle?”

  Rommie said, “I don’t know.” She leaped, landed behind a warrior, strike, strike, strike, she hit him and took his lance as he fell. “If I have to fight Tyr as well, I’ll be forced to leave the avatar to itself and withdraw to the ship.”

  Dylan said nothing. He took another hit, a glancing blow to the side of the head. He bit his cheek, and spat blood.

  Frenzied screams sounded from the audience as the blood spray marred his white costume—he realized close-ups were being flashed up above.

  Gripping the lance, he waded in with a fast one-two-three that sent a shower of sparks up from the last one’s bo; the lance smashed against the warrior’s jaw. He fell down and did not get up.

  Shrill screams from the crowd.

  Dylan fought on. Rommie knew without his saying anything that his longing to get back aboard his ship was at least as int
ense, as visceral, as the fight they were engaged in right now.

  He blocked two fast hits, whirled, dived, rolled up and thrust the lance between the legs of a charging warrior. Rommie leaped, twisted, and snapped out a side kick that sent the falling warrior careening into his partner.

  “Rest of the crew?” Dylan panted.

  Rommie flicked her attention inward, then outward.

  “On the run,” she said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Everyone who desires power wants it first over those nearest.

  —DRAGO MUSEVENI, CY 8677

  Otomo sat in his quarters, tapping his fingers on the console.

  Finally he leaned forward, punched in the private code for Captain Rommel.

  Rommel’s face came up instantly. He bowed, eyes lowered.

  Otomo said, “What is Minamoto doing?”

  “Scrambling a wing of the Bushi, on your father’s command, to engage with the Andromeda Ascendant. Minamoto goes to recover the bones of the Ancestor,” said Rommel.

  Perfect! exalted Otomo internally. He sat back, permitting no expression at all on his face. But once again there really did seem to be a thread here leading to a destiny being woven, had any the wit to perceive it.

  An unpleasant mental jolt reminded him of where he’d learned that concept. It had been their father’s favorite wife, Philippa, who had said to Otomo and Daigo-Ujio when they were very small that though Nietzsche had said many important things, their Japanese ancestors had really been far wiser. And one of the subjects they had been wise about was that it took the subtle mind, the perceiving mind, to intuit one’s place in destiny: Nietzsche’s random acts were all very well when one merely considered the effect of choices and the exertion of power. But to deny that it all fit together, outside of all the single monads?

  Daigo-Ujio…here.

  And no one but Otomo knew it.

  He allowed a slight smile to reach his lips. “Then my brother will need someone on his flanks, in case the Drift throws in with the Andromeda”

  “An excellent plan, Otomo-san. I shall scramble a wing for you under…Prinzeugen?”

  Otomo studied Rommel’s dark gaze. He was quick, that one. Submissive, oh yes, but that didn’t really mean much. Otomo had exerted himself to make certain he possessed all Rommel’s secrets. He was sometimes just a little too quick, and there still was some mystery surrounding the convenient deaths of a couple of troublesome older half brothers.

  Otomo was glad to have them gone, but he would have preferred to have arranged those deaths himself—or set up Minamoto, the raging bull, to complete them. Rommel’s name being somehow associated with them hinted at, one might say, ambitions outside of the proper reach of a foster son.

  “Lieutenant Prinzeugen and his squad, yes,” Otomo said, and thought: And maybe it’s time for me to examine your databanks more closely. But on my return.

  He sat there for a long moment, and then sent a private com to Prinzeugen. As soon as the screen cleared he spoke without preliminaries. “Put boarding mods on the slip-fighters.” Not waiting for the acknowledgment, he tabbed out, and rose.

  His com room was a tiny cubby, completely secure—he’d overseen the security measures himself—and thus utterly blank.

  He tabbed the door open, and entered the splendor of his main cabin. There sat his alpha wife, Brigga, who had been arranging flowers with her usual calm exactitude.

  She saw him emerge, sank gracefully to the fabulous blue-and-silver carpet, woven over in reeds with egrets flying. Her robe, a pale, pale rose made of watered silk, flowed around her as she knelt, knees together, big toe over the other in back, hands folded, eyes lowered, her hair the color of wheat falling ordered down her back.

  Otomo felt a stirring at that submission, especially when he observed the hard line of her jaw. She was not the least submissive in bed, she fought like a tiger, the way a Nietzschean woman should fight. But his will must prevail.

  He smiled. “It seems that Minamoto is going to war against the Andromeda Ascendant “ he said.

  Brigga bowed. She kept her eyes lowered, but felt her heartbeat quicken. With Otomo, asking a question at the wrong time could result in extended pain. Yet one must show interest.

  “In accordance with the wishes of Seii Taishogun?” she asked.

  Otomo studied her, toying with what to say—and what not to say. He was utterly convinced of her loyalty to their son, the handsome, brilliant Musashi, but he was not certain of her loyalty to him.

  “Indeed. And with my own,” he said.

  She looked up, her dark eyes mildly curious, mostly concerned. He saw no guile there.

  “I might,” he said, “have a further surprise for my father,” Otomo said finally, and gave in to the impulse to smile as he lifted his katana from the polished ebony stand, in the place of honor, at the far end of the exquisite carpet.

  Brigga smiled back, and saw that he assumed it was because he smiled. But inwardly she felt a spurt of triumph. Then if’s true, she thought. What her maid had intercepted from Otomo’s console just after he summoned her for diversion.

  Daigo-Ujio really is on that Drift.

  Dylan stepped on his aching foot, his body tried to adjust, making him just a heartbeat slower than he’d been, and two lances struck him, one in the side, one against his leg.

  He fell, rolled, staggered up; Rommie’s stolen lance arced past him, its wind close to his head, and thunked squarely into the chest of one of the warriors, then she used all her strength to thrust, and the man fell like a tree on a heavy-grav world. Wham!

  The crowd roared.

  Dylan used his lance to force himself to his feet. Pain wrung down his body, but he ignored it. Harder to ignore was the sting of sweat in his eyes. He was desperately thirsty, so thirsty the edges of his vision flickered, and dizziness threatened. But he breathed deeply, the slow breaths of the trained fighter, as he assessed the last two warriors, with whom Rommie battled now, and the mood of the crowd.

  Strange, that the first sight of blood had changed their attitude, judging from the sound of the shouts. He and Rommie had gone from villains to heroes, just that fast. He was too tired to ponder why; what he had to do was figure out how to use it.

  He had to get back to his ship.

  The urge gave him a surge of desperate strength, and he joined Rommie. Together they stepped, whirled their lances, struck out—and the last two warriors tried to block, but Rommie sped up, evading their blows, and Dylan followed up when they were both off balance. Whack, one crumpled—a head blow to the second, and he dropped as well.

  At once trumpets sounded, blaring so loud the crowd’s noise was almost drowned, and more of those soberly-dressed minions sped out of yet another door.

  One of them addressed Dylan and Rommie. “This way. If you want a water break.”

  Rommie glanced at Dylan; he was too tired to demur. Of course this offer was not to their benefit, but just so long as he got something to drink, he could deal with whatever came next. Because it was obviously going to come anyway.

  They followed the minions, Dylan noticing that the glaring lights had shifted away from them. He paused, turning around, and staggered slightly as his vision swam; strange! Another fight was about to take place, this time between some enormous creatures and what seemed to be Magog, only wearing some kind of gaudy uniforms, and marching.

  The announcer was talking. Dylan heard something about “super-Magog vampires” but the rest of the words faded into a background garble, further smeared by the rising sound of the wildly cheering crowd, as Torbal motioned them inside the door. Dylan felt himself pass through some sort of force field—it was like an invisible fist to his chest—then he stumbled into a small chamber, bare except for two benches, the walls and low ceiling featureless black except for one wall, which was a window.

  “Go ahead.” Torbal motioned to the far end of one of the benches. Dylan saw canisters sitting there. Thoughts of poison—drugs—drifted through his mind,
to be dismissed. He didn’t care.

  “Go ahead. Drink it,” Torbal said. “Chilled water. No poison. We want to keep you alive.”

  Dylan lifted one, Rommie lifted another, and they both drank, Rommie processing the water in whatever way she did, to hide the fact that she was not made of flesh and bone.

  Dylan paused only for breath, and felt a fresh spring of sweat on his brow, now that he was not so dehydrated; it and the scrubbed air cooled him.

  He let out a long breath, then gave Torbal an ironic glance as he set the empty canister down and picked up another. “Keep me alive? Could have fooled me.”

  Torbal spread his hands. “It would have been inconvenient, had you suffered a fatal blow out there, but we would have contrived. You’ve become more interesting,” he added. “Our lab techs wish to study you. The assumption was that you, born three centuries ago, would perform less effectively than humans today, but we’ve just seen how wrong we were. Is that your training, your genetics, or some other factor?”

  “I want,” Dylan said, “to get back to my ship.”

  Torbal grinned. “Just say the word, and we will have you—and Director Kodos—aboard in very little time.”

  “And what of the other directors, and the problems here?”

  Torbal shrugged. “If Director Kodos goes away, I suspect the problems will go away. Or you can negotiate for her, if you still wish Paradise Drift, and Rigos, to join your empire.”

  Dylan was about to say that it was not an empire but the new Commonwealth, then shut up. Torbal knew damn well. He was obviously trying to get a rise from the stupid High Guard captain, and thus gain more info than he was dealing out.

  Dylan glanced at Rommie, saw her dark eyes taking everything in. She did not speak, just stood quietly, as a good aide would.

  Torbal turned her way. “And you, too, Ensign,” he murmured in an appreciative tone. An insulting tone, even. “Quite the hidden talents. One begins to see why you were chosen as the captain’s, ah, special aide.”

  Not even close, Dylan thought, laughing inside. Not even close.