The City Who Fought

  “Yes,” she murmured, “yes, I understand.” Time seemed to slow.

  He smiled. “Excellent. However, your remarks, if not the manner in which they were delivered, are reasonable. I shall give orders that my troops be . . . gentler with their slaves. After you have emphasized the proper attitude toward their duties.”

  Channa’s eyes widened.

  He actually laughed this time. “Yes,” he assured her, “that, too, is our custom. Those of you that please us or are useful will leave this place on our ships.” He watched her absorb this privilege.

  “Walk with me,” he said, putting a hand under her arm. She jerked slightly at the contact, like the touch of a live conductor.

  Amos started to follow. A servo-powered gauntlet closed down on his skull, so gently that it would not have cracked an egg. A duplicate of the one that had crushed his sister’s skull. Wind blew through the trees above them, making the leaves move in a dance that contrasted to the stillness of the humans below.

  “A strange way to spend so much effort,” Belazir said, as he nodded to the landscape around them. A chuckle passed his lips. “Preferable to expend effort and strength on this than on weapons.”

  “Who does he think built his ships and the weapons they’re carrying?” Simeon whispered in her ear.

  Channa shrugged in answer to both.

  “Still, it is beautiful,” he said. His hand traced the back of her neck, lightly enough that the pads of his fingers just touched the hairs. She shivered involuntarily.

  “I am not Serig,” he added, stroking the fingers down her spine and away. “This is like Earth, is it not?”

  “Mostly,” Channa said. Unconsciously she tilted her head to one side away from Belazir as Simeon gave her the relevant information. “A few of the plants and organisms are from Rigel 4, but they’re compatible.”

  “Like looking back into the past,” he said. They stopped, out of sight of the tables. He looked up into the sky. “Computer,” he said. “Night.”

  The constellations of Earth’s northern hemisphere blazed out, as they had not in reality since men learned to bend electricity to light.

  “Yes,”‘t’Marid said, looking upward at the false sky. “Very beautiful, but it seems too much openness. As if a body might fall upward and be sucked out into limitless space.”

  Well, a weakness, she thought. Many spaceborn were slightly agoraphobic. That could be useful, if Belazir had been spaceborn.

  She thought a smile appropriate. “The sensation is called vertigo. I’ve occasionally experienced it myself when planet-side. I was born and raised on a space station, so I feel more comfortable under a ceiling.”

  “Something of that,” he admitted. “But also . . . Computer. Night on Kolnar. From Maridapore.”

  Channa gasped in shock at the change. The dark sky overhead vanished. In its place was a glowing moon-colored cloud full of colored lights from horizon to horizon. She blinked, then realized the light was not that much more brilliant than the Terran sky. Yet this phenomenon was not a sky: it was a ceiling across heaven.

  “A dozen times full Luna brightness,” Simeon supplied.

  Off to the north, auroras circled and moved, scrolls vaster than worlds, electric blue and white and pearl. Beneath them, on the horizon, a volcano was a glowing firestorm spout, powered by its own natural fission reactor. Something gigantic and winged slid across the alien constellations. Smaller things pursued it, diving and tearing as it fluted an intricate song of grief.

  “I have never seen this sky,” he said thoughtfully. “Not really. Not even a simulation as good as this.” He issued a second command and the Earth night returned. “This is more restful.”

  “Ah . . . The birds won’t like it if you change day to night like this,” Channa said. “You’d better set it back when you leave. Master and God,” she added absently.

  He looked at her in astonished amusement. “The birds won’t like it?” he said. “Channahap, you are a wonder. The birds won’t like it, the insects will be disturbed . . . does this matter?”

  “We brought them here, to a totally unnatural environment. If we expect them to thrive, then it’s our responsibility to provide them with whatever they need. They’re a part of all this,” she said gesturing widely. “Without the birds and the insects, this would be sterile, a lifeless tableau. So we have to be mindful of their needs.”

  He nodded. “I shall leave it on night setting and dawn shall be in twelve hours. Things have changed here. Even the birds must realize it.”

  Channa had no reply for that bit of arrogance.

  “That is the supreme law, of course,” he went on, “for Earth, for Kolnar, for the universe.”

  She made an interrogative sound.

  “Adapt! Master changing circumstance, or die unbred. The Seed—the genes, you would say—are the reality that underlies all this. Taking energy from the Dead World, growing in complexity and adaptation. All this,” and, with a swift movement of his hand, he caught a dragonfly by its legs for a second, then released it, “is waves on the surface. Beneath is the Seed, seeking to replicate itself. All beings, all mind, all war and trade and art and science, mere waves on the changeless sea.” He smiled kindly. “And fittest of all, of course, is the Divine Seed of Kolnar. Of that Seed, fittest is the High Clan. Which is why you long for union with it, for such immortality.”

  “I disagree. Lord and God.”

  “No, you do not. Your mind may, but that is merely the vehicle of the . . . gene. Watch, when we return. Your Simeon-Amos will be enraged. Naturally enough, for he suspects the immortality you offer is to be taken from his seed.” He sighed and turned back towards the tables, hidden behind a line of trees. She trotted to keep pace, although he did not seem to hurry. “Enough of pleasant idleness and philosophizing. To work!”

  “Simeon, why do all my Prince Charmings turn out to be toads?” Channa subvocalized. Amos stood stiff and withdrawn beside her on the people mover as it slid down the corridor. “Is he really jealous? Under these circumstances, that’s ridiculous!”

  “It’s also maybe involuntary. Your girl goes walking in the woods with Lucifer, chatting it up . . .”

  “Absurd!”

  “Beats me, Channa. But I’ll never, ribbit, turn on ya. Ribbit!”

  “Or turn me on, either. It’s nice to know someone is still safe to be with.”

  Whoa! Kick me again, Channa, I think some of my ego is still unbruised.

  “That is the scariest son of a bitch I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet,” she said. Amos nodded silently.

  “Simeon-Amos?”

  “Yes, Channa?”

  “Hold me, would you?” His arm went around her, and she melted into the firm supportive warmth of his side. “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?” His tone was light.

  “For not really being green and warty or eating flies.”

  “Ah, guys?” This time Simeon’s voice came to both of them. “I just figured something out.”

  “What?” Amos said.

  “Bad news about Bethel.”

  The Bethelite stiffened again, his face drawing in lines that showed what he might look like on his deathbed, in the currently unlikely event that he would live to die of old age.

  “What?” Amos repeated, this time as a command.

  “These scumbags—I’m not going to use scumvermin, even in reverse—they’re planning to loot me bare and then blow me up.”

  Simeon was understandably upset if he was referring to the SSS-900-C as “me.”

  “That is bad news for you,” Amos said, steeling himself for how that would also be bad news for Bethel.

  “But if they do that, the Central Worlds Navy will find out—would find out, even if the Kolnari had pulled this hijack off the way we fooled them into thinking they had. Central Worlds’d send flotillas all through this sector and look behind every space rock. For sure, they’d inspect any inhabited system. While the Saffron system may be fardlin‘
remote, it’s still on the maps. And the Kolnari know that, hey? So they’re sacrificing their chance of stripping Bethel in exchange for the station. Means they gotta leave both, fast. So what odds they plan on doing Bethel the same way they do me, when they go? Blow it, too, and cover any traces they hadn’t time to sweep under the carpet. These guys are pigs, but they’re not stupid.”

  “Yes, I see,” Amos said, barely moving his lips. “Sound strategic analysis. Thank you, Simeon.”

  Thanks for nothing, the brain thought dismally. Amos had had the comfort of knowing the Navy would at least rescue the survivors on his homeworld, win or lose here on SSS-900-C.

  “Anything we can do about that?” Channa asked as they entered the lounge.

  “Not much more than what we’re doing now,” Simeon said. “But it’s going to be a very close run at the end. We’ve got to be ready, at all costs. Minutes may make the difference.”

  Keri Holen tried to read, but she’d been on the same page for some time now and still had no idea of its content. Trivia, she thought. Before her life was put in danger, all her friends and family’s lives, she hadn’t known what triviality was. It was anything that didn’t have to do with keeping you alive; anything that didn’t have to do with winning.

  “On the other hand, fretting doesn’t do me any good, either,” she said. Why did I volunteer? she asked herself. Well, the risk was there anyway, and we need to get the second virus working, she thought. Not everyone was a gymnast and martial artist, either.

  Frustrated, she threw the reader onto the cushion beside her and rose to pace the room. There was a soft chime and Simeon’s public face bloomed on the wall screen.

  “The Kolnari are in your area,” he said, warning all those in the threatened sector. “Get your virus capsules in position. Don’t panic. Don’t argue or they will harm you. Remember, place the capsule in your mouth, bite down, try not to swallow. Good luck,” he added fervently.

  Keri rushed to the cabinet where she had stored her supply among other pharmaceuticals. Her hands were shaking so much the capsules flew out of the bottle like confetti when she at last got it open. Moaning, she rushed to gather them up and put them away before the Kolnari arrived. She put one in her mouth, holding it between cheek and gum.

  She returned to the living area and stood watching the door, fingers twining with the tabs of her robe. She could feel her pulse beat in her lips and fingertips, she felt as though she’d been running.

  The door opened.

  God, she thought as she bit down on the capsule. There are four of them! The capsule dissolved with a rush of coolness. Keri smiled broadly and let the robe drop.

  “Welcome to my parlor.” Said the spider to the fly.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mazkira entered the elevator and selected her destination. The mining components fabricator was a treasure of immense value to the Clan. With it, they could scavenge several crucial materials from uninhabited asteroids at need. Besides that, the scumvermin operator was a pleasure to torment, in several different ways. She grinned. Then the expression faded. She could smell him, the scent was heavy in the cage—far more than it should have been when he merely passed through several times daily.

  She looked up . . . into the barrel of a rock-cutter and above it the grinning face of Kevin Duane.

  “Eat this, bitch!” he snarled and powered up the cutter. He cut the Kolnari woman in half lengthwise and smiled as he watched the two sibling halves crumple to the floor.

  The elevator arrived at his level and he replaced the hatch cover. There was the access tunnel, just where Joat had told him it would be.

  He handed Joat the rock-cutter and she raised an inquiring brow. He gave her a grin and a thumbs-up sign. Suddenly the elevator dropped out from underneath him and he was holding on by his elbows, feet scrabbling against the slick shaft walls. He inched his way in, his broad shoulders making it difficult to maneuver. Far below he could hear the elevator coming up again.

  “Hurry up!” Joat said, sliding the rock-cutter down the access tunnel and turning back to pull him in by his shirt.

  All she succeeded in doing was pulling it up over his head; his arms were almost immobilized by the tough fabric.

  “Stop,” he said. “Stop it.”

  “Hurry up!” she cried and slid backwards to give him room. “Or that elevator will smear your carcass all the way to the top of the station.”

  He was most of the way in now, but couldn’t seem to get his feet in. He began to panic, barking his knees on the side walls of the tunnel, the space too narrow to allow him to turn or pull up his legs. In a panic, he caught at Joat’s legs and yanked. Her palms squealed on the slick metal as she struggled futilely to keep her place.

  The drag was just enough to get him all the way in, the side of the elevator lifted the soles of his feet gently as it passed.

  Kevin dropped his head into his arms and giggled with mild hysteria.

  Joat glared at him for a moment, then grinned and whispered, “Hooray! Another one for our side.”

  “Yes?” Belazir said, looking up from his notescreen.

  It was the medico again. The Kolnari repressed an impulse to kick it. If you hit messengers, messages ceased coming. On the other hand, his time was valuable. Especially now, with the transports here and loading round the cycle.

  The thought restored his good humor. Sixty ships, a fifth part of the Clan’s fleet, under his command. Not only transports, but a fighting platform and a couple of the factory ships. It was as good as having Chalku proclaim him successor. Better, since his chances of living long enough to claim it were much higher. A formal announcement might drive some brick-skull like Aragiz’t‘Varak to desperation.

  “Great Lord, there is . . . a problem.”

  “Mine or yours, creature?” he said, slightly impatient. The loading was going so slowly.

  “Great Lord, we have disabling sickness.”

  “What?” Suddenly he was looming over the eunuch.

  “No, please! Don’t hurt me. It’s only old Veskis, the bonesetter. Please, my Great Lord?”

  Belazir’s aquiline nostrils flared. “Speak.”

  “Over sixty ill warriors have sought medical aid, Great Lord. We have never seen the like.” It swallowed. “Great Lord, we do not know how to cure the illness!”

  Belazir had just finished a large meal. Now it lay like curdled hot lead in his gut. Impossible. He tapped at the notescreen, accessing recent files. Yes, over thirty warriors put down or suicided for infection. Not completely unprecedented, but among the heaviest numerically of instances on record. If another threescore had reported sick, there must be many who had not.

  “How does the illness run?” Belazir asked.

  “Swiftly in some, Great Lord. Fever, loss of nervous control, debility, nausea. Others more mildly. Still others recover quickly and are whole. From the blood of those I may produce a vaccine, in time.”

  “Do so,” Belazir ordered. “Swiftly.” In time to avoid spotting my triumph here, he thought. “Wait.”

  He tapped his notescreen again. Most sickness occurred among those on no fixed duty. Of those,‘t’Varak’s ship suffered the most casualties. Belazir racked his brain for what he knew of diseases. Not much, since Kolnari were rarely bothered by disease: accident, yes. He reflected on this problem, queried the info-banks, thought again.

  “Orders,” he said. “Isolate those infected.” Those whom they could, that is. A noble could be killed but not placed under restraint. “This may . . .” He hesitated. “May be related to the disease troubling the scumvermin.” Hideous, that a disease would strike the Divine Seed more strongly than mere scumvermin. “The infected scumvermin are to be avoided. Go, post the orders.”

  That such a scourge should arise now, he thought, looking back at the notescreen. Loading was moving far too slowly. Chalku had given him a deadline; past that, they were to abandon anything remaining, kill and leave. If there was much less than he had promised, he w
ould go from hero to goat. Even if the total he did manage was more than any other Kolnari had amassed, performance and prestige would be measured against expectation.

  “Time,” he muttered. Time was wasting, and the margin for error with it. He stood. “Computer. Kolnar, noon at Maridapore.”

  White-blue light flashed across the parkland, hurtful even to him in the instant before his pupils shrank to pinhead size.

  Jekit nor Varak prowled the corridors. He was not in powered armor. There were not enough suits to go around and their maintenance requirements were fierce. The patrol was to enforce curfew and prevent sabotage, which was becoming a problem. He was in a flexible suit, with a comlink and a plasma rifle. The corridors in this section were darkened, which gave his IR-sensitive eyes the advantage over any scumvermin.

  As if I needed it, he thought. His main enemy was tedium. The corridors were changeless and identical. Ten paces left, take a turn at random. Trot down a long length, checking that the seals on the doors were unbroken. Flatten to a wall and wait. He did isometrics then, muscle pulling on muscle against the strong flexible bones of his body. Nothing much else to do; except that he tired too soon, probably because of the damnable light gravity he had been living in on this station. It would be a relief to get back to Kolnar-standard on the ship.

  Although there were compensations. Keriholen, for example. Jekit’s teeth clicked together as he remembered how they had taken her, he and his brothers. Many times since the first occasion.

  Worth the trouble, he thought. Limber as an eel and tireless as a real woman. Women were scarce for commoners. The nobles took so many. He and his four brothers—they were born at one birthing—had only two wives between them, held in common, and a mere eight children.

  Jekit was sweating. He wiped his face on a sleeve and resumed the pacing, trying to push such thoughts out of his mind. Not until after his watch. It was hot, whatever the gauge said. His stomach felt odd. Maybe the plundered food was bad, although the Divine Seed could eat pretty well anything organic.