The City Who Fought

  The other captain stopped, torn between unwillingness to retract and inability to attack. Belazir was under no such constraints.

  “Did it never occur to you, oh so straightforward cousin, that it might be scumvermin posing as Clan? That they are as capable of playing on our divisions as we are on theirs?”

  “You call me dupe of scumvermin?”

  “I say that you bore me, Lord Captain Aragiz’t‘Varak. You bore me beyond words, beyond bearing. Your existence makes the universe a place of tedium beyond belief!”

  Aragiz’s face relaxed, into a soft, welcoming smile. “When?”

  “When Lord Captain Pol’t‘Veng’s judgement is fulfilled. To the fist.” A death-duel in the old manner, with spiked steel gloves.

  “And now,” Belazir went on, “get your household and all else to your ship.” Quick suspicion marked the other captain’s face. “Yes, I know you were massing your groundfighters. There is no time for feud here,‘t’Varak. Believe me.”

  The screen blanked. Serig took a step forward, an eyebrow raised.

  “Lord, he is the dolt you named him. There is nothing wrong with his reflexes, though.”

  “As it may be,” Belazir said. “I spoke the truth. It drives me to fury to have to call that one cousin, it truly does.” He shook his head. “Today, we triumph, Serig. By running, yes: but triumph nonetheless. So, we—”

  The dockside guards’ chimes rang through the bridge. “Great Lord, we have a scumvermin female, claiming to have information for you.”

  Serig chuckled. There had been a fair number of scumvermin females coming to the dock and asking for Belazir. Some few he had taken himself, and passed the others on to Serig or the crew.

  “No, wait,” Belazir said. “Information of what?”

  “A conspiracy, involving the scumvermin leaders-that-were and the prey-ship, lord.”

  “Send her up.” Belazir looked at Serig and shrugged. “Why not?”

  Waiting was swift. “I would speak with you alone, Master,” the woman said, looking meaningfully at Serig.

  “I am generous to women,” Belazir declared. Quite true, or she would never have reached him. “So generous I did not hear you, scumvermin.”

  She blinked and swallowed hard, looking from one to the other.

  “Why have you come?”

  “The . . . they held me prisoner, Master and Gggg—” Even then, she could not quite bring herself to utter the blasphemy. Then Belazir looked up at her, and she felt herself huddle down behind the barrier of her skull, knowing it was not enough. So a sicatooth looked at a lamb.

  “—God,” she completed, uncertain if it was the obscene honorific they demanded or a prayer. “I . . . I have information.” She stammered, put a hand to her face. I escaped, she thought. They must be really conspiring against her—against Amos, as well. Holding her from him. She whimpered slightly. She could remember his words of love, the promises—and nightmares of rejection, of failure. The brass-colored eyes were waiting.

  “I am Rachel bint Damscus. I am from Bethel. I was on the ship that you were chasing. Forty of us survived the journey and took refuge on this station.”

  Neither of the Kolnari moved or spoke.

  “So . . . you are from Bethel?” Belazir leaned his head on his fist. One finger caressed his lower lip. “Turn your head. Stand. Bend. Sit once more.”

  Belazir turned to Serig. “Possible,” he said meditatively. “Similar scumvermin race, but there are many varieties here.”

  “Unlikely, lord.”

  Belazir nodded. And in any case academic. They were nearly ready to go. If they have deceived us, what matter? The memory of his slap in the face of the Bride’s joss came back to him. Perhaps the old customs had some real strength after all. . . .

  She stared at him. There was something odd about her eyes, Belazir decided. Her lips trembled, and her fingers, but not in terror; he could always identify that. Some nerve disorder, perhaps? He leaned forward and snuffed. Not a healthy scent.

  “Yes.” She nodded once, sharply. “Master and God.”

  “Why do you tell me this? Surely you know that it is dangerous?

  The woman began to tremble with rage, and tears filled her eyes.

  “She . . . that black-haired, black-hearted whore seduced my betrothed! She promised him power! But she lied. He plays the fool for her, does what she tells him, sleeps in her bed . . .” Her voice broke and she stopped, swallowed a few times before she could speak again. “The one you have been told is Simeon-Amos is truly Amos, the leader who brought us here from Bethel. The real Simeon is a shellperson, a thing they call a brain, and he is still running this station.”

  “A . . . shellperson?” Belazir’t‘Marid closed his eyes for a moment. “Ah! We have heard, but never seen.”

  Serig leaned down to him. “Lord, a sort of protein computer, no? But our worm subverted their system and holds it in our fist. Would we not have known?”

  “It would explain anomalies,” Belazir said, chasing the elements that made him believe the impossible “And—ah! I am as great a fool as Aragiz’t‘Varak!”

  “Surely not, lord,” Serig said, surprised. “Not on your worst day. Not on my worst day. Not on the worst day of this scumvermin womb here.”

  “I was about to dismiss this, time being short. Dismiss potentially the richest single piece of loot on the station!”

  “A shellperson is so much?”

  “A strategic asset,” Belazir said. “Come, we will look into this. It is time, in any case.”

  He turned his eyes back to the scumvermin. From all he could see, she was manic-depressive, swinging from healthy, normal terror to an exalted state where she had complete confidence in his interest, in his support. As if he were a player in her play . . .

  “Mad,” he said. “Yet . . . My vanity, perhaps, but little Channahap plays the war game far too well. An encysted brain, tied to great computers and their data banks, though?” He cocked an eyebrow at Rachel.

  “I can only tell you what I have heard,” the woman said, babbling in her desire to be believed. “I have been told that they are people who have been put into a casing as infants and that they then become like a computer.” She wrung her hands and looked desperately from one to the other. “I’m telling you the truth. They are plotting against you, Master and God!”

  Belazir smiled in polite agreement. “Of course they are.” On that, at least, they were agreed. He rose. “Come, we will go and talk to them.” He turned to Serig. “Have Baila tell Channahap that I will see her in her office. Tell her to have Simeon-Amos there as well.”

  Simeon spoke, interrupting Channa at her work station. “Channa, Belazir’t‘Bastard is heading this way with Rachel in tow. I don’t know what’s up, but he’s looking both grim and pleased.”

  Before Channa could speak, the comm chimed and Baila’s face appeared.

  “Channahap,” she said. “The Lord Captain’t‘Marid is on his way to your office. You will await him there. He commands the presence of Simeon-Amos. Obey.” The screen went dark.

  “Shit,” Channa said, and tapped her fingers thoughtfully. “You’re right, Simeon, this does not look good. I am so sick of that girl. She’s driving me . . . crazy. Simeon?”

  “You’re right on the button about her state of mind, Channa. Our Rachel’s crazy, not just going crazy but absolutely nuts, gonzo, a sandwich shy of a picnic, packin‘ a short seabag . . .”

  “Sim!”

  “Right, I’ll have Chaundra draw up a case history about some kind of dementia. You brief Simeon-Amos, I’ll spread the word.”

  “You got it. Simeon-Amos,” she said over the intercom, “get in here.”

  “And Channa?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think this is it. The battle platform just started severing its stationside power leads. We’ve got a real opportunity to hurt them hard if we can get Belazir out of comm with his people. It could make the difference.”

  Channa nodded.
She had been prepared to try an assassination on the Bride, but that, at best, was unlikely. Fear was remote: no time for it.

  “Simeon-Amos,” she began, when he entered the lounge. “Belazir’s coming, with Rachel.” His face froze. “Here’s what we’re going to do—no time for an argument.”

  The crates made gentle plopping noises as they slid out of the meter-deep green water of the algae pools and stood dripping on the slotted metal of the walkways. Ships had a closed system of tubing and enclosed tanks, but this arrangement—open metal rectangles stacked like trays—was more efficient for a station. The environment systems workers moved quickly, without wasted effort or much talking. This had not been a cheerful section since their chief returned to them, but there was a stolid satisfaction as the vac-covers were peeled back and the weapons went from hand to hand among the hundred or so technicians, office workers, and laborers.

  Patsy Sue Coburn watched the needlers emerge, brutal and compact. She slung one over her shoulder. Ursinid weapons were submachinegun size for humans. Then she reached into the pool and retrieved her arc pistol, stripping off the plastic film.

  “Wait for it,” she whispered. If the Kolnari made one last swing through on their usual routes, they’d be by in half an hour or so.

  The crew were crowding around the supervisors, getting a quick lesson on how to use a needler to best effect. Luckily, the weapons had simple controls: set the dial on the side to the full clockwise position and take up the trigger slack. Look down the barrel at the target and pull the trigger. Line of sight weapons with little recoil at short ranges, they should do well enough.

  And they’re all we’ve got, she reminded herself. She felt completely calm. In a way, she had been calm since she woke and saw Joat’s face floating before her, like a ghost’s in its pool of light. There was a feeling under that, a feeling that when she wasn’t calm anymore, it was going to be very, very bad.

  “Reckon I kin wait fer it,” she told herself.

  The others were looking at her.

  “Just wait ‘n till they come around,” she said patiently for the hundredth time. “Simeon’ll keep us all in touch.” I hope, I purely do. “Now, when they git here, you burn ’em down. Then go down axial G-8 an‘ hit the bunch of ’em there. Amos’ll be by about then. If not him, then me.”

  She nodded curtly and slung the needler further around to her back, freeing her hands for the climb up the interval ladder. The entrance to the venting system was where she would rendezvous with Joat. Not a difficult climb at first, since these were the biggest vents on the station. The circle of faces fell away below her, growing tiny amid the rectangular Escher shapes of the ponds and the huge color-coded maze of pipes for nutrient and water and waste.

  Amos stood impassively behind Channa, hands clasped at his back. They dropped to a knee as Belazir entered. He took the seat before her desk, gestured to Channa to sit. The squad of soldiers began to crowd into the small office. The’t‘Marid snapped out an order in his own language and all but two of them withdrew.

  Rachel stood beside his chair. She glared at Channa and then turned away, her fists clenched by her sides. To Amos she smiled tremulously.

  Definitely, as Sim would say, a few cans short of a sixpack, Channa decided. She looks as if she’s rescuing him.

  Channa folded her hands in her lap. “Master and God, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  Belazir smiled and indicated Rachel with his hand. “I have been given some interesting information.”

  “I have told him everything!” Rachel said spitefully.

  Channa and Amos regarded her blankly, then shook their heads and turned to Belazir.

  “Everything?” Channa asked.

  “She has told me that she and forty others survived the trip from Bethel, and that this man,” he flicked his chin at Amos, “is her betrothed. She tells me that he is pretending to be Simeon and that the real Simeon is in fact a brain in a container or some such thing, who is running this station and the resistance to the High Clan.”

  He folded his hands and regarded her calmly. “This truth would solve certain difficulties.”

  Channa fought not to smile, making her eyes wide with disbelief. Belazir studied her closely. Amusement was not what he had anticipated.

  “Simeon-Amos,” she said at last, “please inform Doctor Chaundra that Rachel has been found and ask him to come and fetch her. Advise him that he may need some form of chemical restraint.”

  Belazir raised an eyebrow.

  Channa looked to the’t‘Marid for permission for Amos to comply. Belazir flicked his fingers. Amos nodded and went into his own office to make the call.

  “She lies yet again, lord,” Rachel said, but she fell silent at a second flick of Belazir’s hand.

  Channa assumed an understanding expression. “This young woman is deranged. We don’t restrain her because usually she is harmless and so are her fantasies. A tragic case, very resistant to psychotherapy.”

  “Foul whore—” Rachel began, urgently stepping forward.

  Belazir made a chopping motion with his hand. A guard stepped forward and Rachel shut her mouth with an audible snap.

  “Who is she, then?” he asked.

  “We don’t actually know,” Channa said. “She was abandoned here, apparently by some transient merchanter. She had no I.D. No one came forward with any information about her. The doctor isn’t sure if her insanity is the result of drugs or trauma. He says the only way to be one hundred percent sure is to do an autopsy, which obviously is out of the question. She’s usually very sweet, at worst a mild nuisance. Perhaps the conditions . . .” and Channa made a vague motion with her hand to suggest that the occupation might have added to her instability. Channa made herself lean back casually in her chair, appearing at ease. “Perhaps it’s a sign of progress that she is this aware of, ah, current events, Master and God. She must have concocted this fantasy about Bethel from the newstapes, for example.”

  Rachel exploded. “She lies!” She lunged for Channa, coming up with a jerk when the guard pulled her back by her long hair. Her gorgon’s mask of rage did not even register the pain. She struggled briefly and then subsided as Amos came back into the room. “Amos,” she pleaded, weeping, “help me!”

  He looked at her with sympathy.

  “Of course, I will help you, Rachel,” he said. His mellow voice rang with sincerity. “We all wish to help you.” He leaned close to Channa. “The doctor is on his way, Ms. Hap.”

  “No!” Rachel screamed. “No! How can you do this to me? She is using you, my love! Do not betray me! Please . . .” Tears began to leak down her long nose. “Please . . . please.”

  Channa’s stomach twisted. She is crazy. Probably curably crazy—most were. Irritation faded before pity, and pity faded before the threat of the Kolnari putting any weight into Rachel’s tale.

  Amos’ sympathy was achingly real.

  “There, there,” he said soothingly. “You are ill, Rachel. Daddy will call the doctor to make it right.” He offered the rag doll he was carrying. “You can have Siminta with you.” He pressed it into her hands.

  For a moment Rachel’s sobs stopped and she stared at him in confusion. “What?” she said. “You are my betrothed, not my father!” She looked down at the doll, then dashed it to the floor and stamped her foot. “Stop mocking me!”

  Amos shifted uneasily. “I cannot keep up with this. May I be excused until Doctor Chaundra comes?”

  “It might be best,” Channa said, addressing Belazir.

  The’t‘Marid’s eyes flicked over the three of them. “Daddy?” he said dubiously, then quirked an involuntary smile.

  Channa sighed. “Last week, she thought she was five years old and Simeon-Amos was her father. She would start to cry if he left the room. For some reason, she’s totally fixated on him. Chaundra supposes that he resembles whoever dropped her on us. We don’t know.”

  “Lies!” Rachel shrieked. “lies.”

  “T
he doctor should be here by now,” Amos said, clearly uncomfortable. He picked up the doll and placed it carefully on a chair. “Ah . . . she will grieve later if it isn’t there.”

  “You may go,” Belazir said to him. His eyes never left Channa’s.

  Chaundra strode in. He walked over to the weeping girl and touched her shoulder gently. “Poor Rachel,” he said soothingly, “poor little girl.”

  “Doctor,”‘t’Marid said sharply. Chaundra turned and stood very straight, looking down. “This is your patient?”

  “Yes, Master and God.”

  “I do not appreciate having my time wasted on the daydreams of this madwoman. If she is so much as seen again—no, no point. You may go. Wait. You have records of her illness? I want to see them.”

  “Yes, Master and God, but I can’t access them from this computer. Medical records are on a closed system to protect the privacy of the patient.”

  Belazir made an impatient, dismissive gesture. “Serig,” he said. “See to it, then back to the Bride, continue on the matter we were planning. I will join you shortly.” Serig bowed deeply.

  “At your command, lord,” he said, his teeth showing slightly in cold amusement. “The doll, too?”

  Belazir snorted. “Go, insolence.”

  Rachel took a deep breath and seemed to fight for dignity; the twitching lessened in her face. “They are lying, Master and God, you will see. I am telling the truth.”

  That ended in a squawk as Serig turned her about and pushed between her shoulderblades. She ran to avoid falling, and the door hissed open before her.

  “Now,” Belazir snarled. Chaundra followed.

  In the strained silence that followed, Belazir and Channa studied each other.

  At last Belazir spoke. “Have your man return.”

  Channa pressed the intercom button, “Simeon-Amos, would you come in here, please?”

  “This Rachel is in love with you,”‘t’Marid observed, a hint of laughter in the yellow eyes.

  “I confess,” Amos said bitterly, “that I am beginning to despise the very sight of her.”

  The Kolnari raised an eyebrow.