Serpent's Reach

  “Yess,” they agreed, speaking together.

  “Just tell Mother what’s happened. Tell her I’m coming to Newhope, but I’m slow. I need help, blue-hive azi, weapons. Fast.”

  There was an exchange of tones. “Good,” one said. “Go now?”

  “Go,” she said; and two darted off with eye-blurring speed, lost at once in the night and the hedges. The other remained, shadowed her with slow-motion steps as she and her guards returned to the house.

  “Merry,” she said, when she had come to his group, where they huddled on the porch, tired men with rifles braced on knees toward the azi barracks. Merry gathered himself up, haggard, the light from the door showing darkly on his wounded cheek, his blond hair plastered with sweat and dust. “One of the two of us,” she said hoarsely, “has to get the truck back after those men. You’ve land sense. Can you do it? Are you able to? I need you back; I rely on you too much.”

  Pride shone in the azi’s eyes. “I’ll get back,” he said; she had never imagined such a look of intensity from stolid Merry. It approached passion. Such expression, she saw suddenly, rested not alone in his face, but in those of others. She did not understand it. It had something to do with the tapes, she thought, and yet it was no less real, and disturbed her.

  “Truck ought to be in the equipment shed. Watch yourselves, walking around out here. We think we’ve accounted for everyone. I haven’t had time to check comp thoroughly.”

  “I need three men.”

  She nodded; Merry singled out his men and left for the side of the house. She stationed Warrior by the side of the porch by the other azi and left them so, limped up the steps and into the house, giving only a glance to the captive betas. Her legs shook under her, adrenaline drained away. She sank down and wiped her face with her hand.

  “Get a water-container,” she told one of the azi. And to the beta, “ser, is there a key for that vehicle?”

  “By the door.”

  She looked and saw it hanging. “Take that to Merry,” she told the azi. “Take a bit of that dried fruit too. There’ll be at least some can appreciate it.”

  The azi gathered up the items and left, came back again; distantly there was a moaning of an engine, that turned off where the road would be: Merry was on his way.

  “True that the shuttle crashed?” the beta woman asked.

  Raen nodded. “Broken limbs in plenty, sera. And dead. We had a hundred men aboard that ship.”

  The betas’ faces reflected compassion for that.

  “I’m sorry,” Raen said, “for breaking in. It’s necessary. your names, seri? I’d rate you compensation if it were safe. It’s not, at the moment.”

  “Ny,” the man said, nodded at his wife. “Berden. My son and his wife. Grandchild. Kontrin, you can have anything, only so you leave us all right.”

  “There’s majat,” the young man said. “We’ve got to have our defenses whole. Have to, Kontrin.”

  “I’ve heard how that is. I’ve heard how the farms won’t give up their azi.”

  “All the protection we have,” Ny said.

  Raen looked at them, at the house, recalling the situation of buildings and the fields. “But you could rather well survive in such a place, could you not—producing your own food and power? And ITAK and ISPAK both know it. You don’t have to yield up your grain; and they know that too.”

  “Need it,” Ny said. “We need the azi; azi’ve no desire at all to go back to the pens either. They’ve lived loose here, lived well, here. We don’t turn them back, no, Kontrin. We don’t.”

  It was a bold speech for a beta. It did not offend her. “Indeed,” she said, “you’ve a secure and enviable land here. I’d a notion to destroy your comp at least; but you’re not ITAK folk nor ISPAK, are you? You have a map of the area?”

  “Comp room,” Berden said. “Drawer under the machine.”

  “I thank you,” she said quietly, rose on aching limbs and limped off to the cluttered little room.

  The map was there. She sat down before the unit and studied it, found their location conveniently marked, a rough two hundred kilometres south of a major tributary of the River, nearly a thousand from Newhope.

  She hesitated a moment, then coded in one of her several male personas, keyed in a purchase of passage; the program under that name was already get. One sped to the persona of Merek Sed and family, a matter of honour. One sped to the real person of one ser Tol Errin 1028D Upcoast, a worker in glass, with his family, with offer of an immediate commission on Meron, freighter-passage.

  A mad gesture. A whim. Some things were worth saving.

  It took an instant of time. She nerved herself again and keyed Newhope, again on emergency. “Jim!” she snapped, and gave instructions in case any other azi was in hearing, to answer her.

  There was nothing. She broke connection quickly.

  She sat then with her hand pressed against her mouth, staring at the board distressedly and trying to reckon now what to do.

  She looked about her. There had gathered a quiet ring of surplus azi, exhausted, sitting on the floor and all about, young faces looking toward her with anxious eyes.

  They all had Merry’s look.

  iv

  There were dreams, horrid dreams, and one of them was a shadow, tall and gaunt, leaning across the light.

  It seized and shook, and Jim tore his arm free and cried out, clawing at the leads which were no longer there, trying to free himself of the nightmare. He had no strength. The grip closed on him and held him still, and for a time there was only his pulse for reality, a throbbing in his ears and a dull wash of rose across his eyes.

  “Wait outside,” a voice said above him.

  “Dying.” The tones were song, deep and sorrowful.

  “Wait outside.” Harsher now. “Go.”

  “Stranger,” the song mourned. “Stranger, stranger, green-hive.”

  But it retreated, as far as the door. He could hear it clicking.

  Hands caught his face between. “Azi,” the male voice said. “Azi, come back, come back, wake up. Quietly now. Was it suicide? Did she order you to this?”

  The words made sense and then did not. Senses greyed out again, his whole body numb and heavy. Then there was sharp pain, and he came back, feeling it, but unable to reckon where the pain was centred.

  “He’s coming out of it,” the voice said. “Stay back. Let him be.”

  “Green-hive,” the other fretted, retreated again, muttering deep notes of distress. He turned his head, opened his mouth to cry to it for help.

  “No.” A hand covered his mouth, hard. He struggled at that, vision clearing. He knew the face that leaned above him: not simply recognised, but knew—

  Knew the Halds, and the man Pol, who was dangerous, whose House and sept had clear reason to hate the Meth-marens. He fought the muffling hand, and had no strength in his limbs or his hands, scarcely even the power to lift them.

  “Be very still.” Pol leaned close, his breath fanning his cheek. “I’ve talked my way in here, you see. The majat is watching…such moves as they have eyes to see. Do you hear me, azi?”

  He tried to nod against the hand. He could scarcely breathe; words passed out of sense again.

  “I told you to stay downstairs.”

  “Let him go.” Max’s voice. Jim struggled back toward the sound, toward understanding. “I shouldn’t have let you in.”

  “But you have. Get the Warrior out of here. Guard the door if you like. Leave me with him.”

  Max, Jim wanted to say. He murmured something. Max did not answer.

  “Get downstairs,.” Pol Hald said. “Hear me?”

  The crack of authority was in his voice. Jim winced at it. Max went. The door closed. Pol Hald rose and locked it, and Jim rolled onto his side, holding the chair arm, fighting to move at all. Pol returned, caught his arms, jerked at him. His head snapped back with a crack: muscle control was gone. He could not even lift it.

  “Shuttle’s down,” Pol said, ??
?but not in either port. Where is she? Come out of it and answer me.”

  He could not. He tried to shake his head to protest the fact. Pol flung him down, let him alone; steps retreated, came back—he was roughly lifted and a cup held to his lips.

  “Drink it, hear? If there’s a mind left in you. Was it her order you did this?”

  He drank. The water eased his throat. Pol let him back then, and touched wet fingers to his temples. He shut his eyes and drifted, came back again to a faint rattling of plastic.

  “Kontrin tapes,” Pol muttered. “History. Law. Comp theory—blast! where did she get that one?” He thought that it was safe to rest while the voice railed elsewhere, but suddenly the hands fastened into his toneless limbs again and pressed to the bone. “Why, azi?”

  He lay still, looking at Pol, and Pol at him.

  “You know me,” Pol said. “Don’t you? You know me.”

  He blinked, no more than that. It was truth. Pol understood it.

  And slowly Pol sank down beside the chair, gripped his arm quite gently. “You’re sane. Don’t think you can pretend it undid you. I’ve seen suicides by deepstudy. You’re not gone. You’re lying there with your teeth shut on everything, but I understand, you hear? You’ve studied what you ought not. I’m not dealing with an azi, am I? You’re something else. How long have you been delving into those particular tapes?”

  He answered nothing, and there was knowledge in his mind, memory of the Family, what he could expect of Halds.

  “She ordered this? She set you to suicide?”

  “Not suicide.” The accusation that touched her, stung him. “No. I. My choice. To learn.”

  “And what have you learned, azi?”

  “My name is Jim.”

  “You have, haven’t you?”

  He thought that Pol would kill him. He expected so, but there was nothing he could do about it; he tried to move, and Pol helped instead of hindering, hauled him forward to sit on the edge, put a glass into his hand. He expected water and got juice, gagged on it. “Drink it,” Pol snapped at him, and when he had done so, dragged him bodily into the bath and into the shower, turned the water on him. He sank down, too weak to stand, and leaned against the glass.

  It was Max who pulled him from it. Max’s strong hands lifted him, half-carried him to the bed.

  “Pol,” he objected. “Where is he?”

  “Downstairs.” The guard-azi looked at him in anguish. “He came to the gate outside—said she’s in trouble. What do we do? What orders?”

  Max was asking him. He stared at the azi. Nothing made sense. There was only the single word. She.

  He snatched at his abandoned clothing, looked up suddenly at a move in the open doorway. Pol stood there, a shape among shadows.

  “The mind’s working now, isn’t it? More than these that could be argued into letting the likes of me into the house.”

  It was. Jim looked reproach at Max, and suddenly realised a gulf between. He did not know what he should and knew more than gave him comfort. His knees went out from under him and he had to lean, caught wildly at the chair.

  “You’ve thrown yourself into shock,” Pol said “The body won’t stand that kind of insult; throws metabolism into erratic patterns. Help him, azi.”

  Max did so, caught him and set him down, grasped his arms. “What do we do?” Max asked of him. “He’s not armed. We saw to that.” Max tugged and pulled the clothes onto him, shook at his arms. “Warriors are all about. He can’t do any damage. Can he, Jim? He talks about her, about some trouble. What are we supposed to do? You’re to give the orders. What?”

  He fought nausea, looked up at the Hald. “The first thing is not to trust him. He’s older and wiser than we.”

  Pol grinned. “You’ve studied Raen’s tapes. Her mind-set. You reckon that, azi? That you are her mind-set?”

  “The second thing,” Jim said, resisting the soft voice that unravelled him, “is to make doubly sure that he isn’t armed.”

  Pol solemnly spread open his hands. “I swear.”

  “And never believe him.” He was shaking, violently. He sat still, conserving the energy he had in him, tried to think past the pains in his joints and the contractions of his stomach. Blood pressure, a forgotten tidbit of information surfaced, explaining the intense feeling that his head was bursting. “You think you can take this house. You won’t.”

  The Family would kill him, he thought If Raen were lost, he would die. If Raen survived, it was possible that she would kill him for what he had done. Neither was important at the moment. The necessity was not to let the Hald get control of the staff.

  “Search him again, Max,” he said.

  Pol bristled. Max approached him with deference—evidence of how little thorough that first search had been; but Pol submitted, and it was done, with great care.

  “I’m not alone now,” Pol said, the while Max proceeded. “There’s another of the Family here. I have to contact the Meth-maren. You understand me. The time has come. He’ll be here. He’ll not be subtle; he’ll not need to be. The whole house is vulnerable.”

  “Who?” Jim asked.

  “Morn. Morn a Ren hant Hald.”

  That name too he knew. First cousin to Pol. Travelling companion. Experienced in assassination.

  “You often appear together,” Jim said. “You make jokes. He kills.”

  Pol’s face reacted, to Max’s searching or to an azi’s presumption. He frowned and nodded slowly. “Morn is nothing to trifle with. You understand that at least. I’ll get her out of here. You listen to me, azi.”

  “Jim.”

  “I can get her off this world. Elsewhere. Out of the Family’s hands. I have a ship waiting at the port. I have to reach her in time.”

  Jim shook his head slowly.

  “You know,” Pol said, as Max finished; he brushed distastefully at his clothing. “You know where she is.”

  “No, ser. You know well she wouldn’t tell me.”

  “She would have established other contacts. Other points. Numbers, records. Names.”

  “She wouldn’t have confided them to me.”

  “There had to be records.”

  “Max!” Jim said. “Have Warrior keep a guard about the comp centre. Now. Do it! Warrior!”

  Max moved, drew his gun: Pol’s instant move was stopped cold. The Hald stepped back, then.

  And there was a shadow in the door, that filled it, moiré eyes that swept them. “This-unit guardsss,” it said.

  “This stranger,” Jim said, “must not go near the comp”

  “Understandss. Comp centre: many-machine. Sssafe.”

  Pol’s eyes hooded. “You’ve killed us all. Morn won’t hesitate at wiping out this whole house. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand it very well. We’re only azi.”

  Perhaps Pol caught that sarcasm. He gave him a long and penetrating look. “It’s Raen’s mind-set,” he said. “Male, she’s no different.”

  Jim swallowed at the sickness in his throat. Calm, calm, an old tape kept insisting somewhere. And: Distraction is argument that needs no logic, another advised him, Kontrin. Pol was skilled in the tactic. Jim painted a smile on his face and tucked a corner of the blanket about him against a tendency to chill, reckoning that what happened would at least be quick, unless Pol or Morn directly laid hands on him. “The staff,” he said, “will make you comfortable, ser. But you’ll stay away from the computer.”

  “You realise a direct strike could wipe this house out That with the stakes I fear she’s playing-the Family may not care that betas or a Kontrin die in the process.” Pol’s mouth twisted as though the words choked him. “I don’t care for a few betas or a houseful of azi and majat But she’s another matter with me. You hear me. I’ll not be taken down by a houseful of azi.”

  “There are majat.”

  The Kontrin went stone-faced.

  “The staff,” Jim repeated, “will make you comfortable in this room. But you’ll not leave
it.”

  Pol folded big arms.

  “She’ll come back,” Jim said.

  Pol shook his head. “I doubt that she can, azi. The shuttle was never meant for landing elsewhere. She’ll die, if she’s not dead already.”

  It undermined his confidence of things. He could not keep that from his face.

  “You know,” Pol said reasonably, “that she admitted me here herself. She’d never have let an enemy that close to her. You have her mind. You know that better than anyone would. She wouldn’t have let me in the door to see the lay of things, if she didn’t know that I wasn’t the enemy.”

  “I don’t try to think as she does.” Jim hugged the blanket about him, stared bleakly at the Hald. “I don’t know enough. I only know what she told me, which was to stay and hold this house. You can say what you wish, ser. It may entertain you. It won’t make any difference.”

  Pol cursed him, and Warrior stirred in the doorway.

  “Green-hive,” Warrior moaned.

  “That is another reason,” Jim said. “We simply wait for her. Maybe she’ll tell me then that I was wrong.”

  “She’s never going to have the chance.”

  Jim shrugged, tucked his feet up, cross-legged on the bed. “How shall we pass the time, ser? I am passably skilled at Sej.”

  v

  The queasiness of docking upset the child. Wes Itavvy hugged her against him, looked at his wife, mute, full of things he should have said. They held Meris between them, clasping her hands, saying nothing. The shuttle made this run nearly empty: they three, a family of five from Upcoast, whose faces were no less worried. The port had been a-bristle with police. ID’s were checked, and Itavvy had endured that in terror, expecting at any moment there would be someone who knew his face, who could detect the false numbers, the lies behind the precious tickets.

  They had gone through. They had taken almost nothing in baggage, in their haste. There was disaster at their backs. It was palpable, throughout the city, through the subways, where armoured police patrolled, with rifles levelled, in shops closed, in newslines censored, broadcasts cancelled.