Sabin stumbled and kept going, past the cedar shingles of the wool shop where her mother stood on the door stoop.
'Girl, where are you off to, there's salvage work to be done, and soup to be fixed for the men.'
But the rebuke of her parent was meaningless, now, and had been for quite some time.
Deep darkness wrapped the hollow where the crossroads met the town and the lane led inland through forest. Sabin went that way, her lungs burning, and her eyes streaming tears. The terrible truth pursued her: she did not weep for loss. The village was nothing to her, its hold inexorably diminished since the moment she left a jacket on the beach.
By the stone marker on the hill above the market, the Wayfinder waited, as she knew he would. He sat astride a mare whose coat caught the moonlight like sea-foam, and whose eyes held the darkness and mystery of water countless fathoms deep. She tossed her head at Sabin's arrival, as if chiding the girl for being tardy, and her mane lifted like a veil of spindrift; subsided like falling spray.
The Wayfinder regarded Sabin gravely, the burning in his eyes near to scalding. 'You heard my call,' he said. 'The mare came, and you answered also.'
Sabin found speech at last. 'You knew I would.'
He shook his head, his unbleached honey-colored hair veiling his weatherbeaten face. 'I wasn't sure. I hoped you might. Gifts such as yours are needed sorely.'
The white mare stamped, impatient. She blew a salty, gusty snort. New tears welled in tracks down Sabin's cheeks, and she reached out trembling fingers and touched the shimmering white shoulder. It was icy as seawater; magical and terrifying and beautiful enough to bring madness. The words she struggled to shape came out choked. 'If the horse cannot return, then neither will I.'
'You are both my responsibility,' the Wayfinder admitted. 'And will be, to the end of my days.' He extended his hand, no longer so thin, but disfigured still with old scars.
'You must know the Karbaschi would have burned more than boats, and slaughtered and raped did they land.'
Sabin felt as if she had swallowed a stone. 'You spared the whole village, and they hate you.'
He sighed, and the mare shifted under him, anxious to be away. 'Oh my dear, it could not be helped. What is a boat? Or a man? New trees will grow and be fashioned into planks, and women will birth babies that age and grow senile and die. But just as this mare can't return to the waves, so an earth spirit that is maimed can never heal. The Karbaschi shed more than mortal blood. I could not allow myself to be captured, however bitter the price.'
'You could have died,' Sabin said, her gaze transfixed by the horse.
And he saw it was not his exile, but the fate of the mare that she mourned. The two of them, man and girl, were alike to the very core.
A shout knifed the quiet, and torches shimmered through the trees. The mare stamped again, and was restrained by a touch as the Wayfinder said in measured calm, 'I can still die. But you must know, the mare should be cared for. She is not of mortal flesh. If I give myself up, hear warning. Your talents will blossom with time. A horse such as this will draw notice and the Karbaschi will send another fleet. Their craving for conquest is insatiable as the ocean is vast, and in'am shealdi to guide them, most rare.'
She made no move, and her rejection seemed to shatter his detachment. He lifted his head as the noise of the mob came closer. The edgy, unaccountable wariness that every offered kindness had not softened, gentled very suddenly into pity. 'In'am shealdi,' he murmured in the grainy, musical voice that had commanded the horse from the sea. 'This mare left the water at my call, you are right, but her sacrifice was never made for me.'
Sabin looked up, stricken. 'For my life?' she gasped, 'or my gift?'
'Both.' His eyes were not cold. Inside the serenity lent by power lay a human being who could bleed, if you treasure the beauty of the horses, heed this. We are the only ones who know their kind. Others see no more than surf and foam. It is our protection, Sabin, that keeps this spirit-mare alive, our call that lends her substance.'
The torches reached the crossroad, and light flared and arrowed between the trees.
'There he is!' someone shouted, and the note of the mob quickened like the baying of hounds that sight game.
To her dream-filled ears, the pursuers uttered no words, but made only a cacophony of vicious noise. The roll of the sea held more meaning, and from this time forward, always would.
Sabin grasped the Wayfinder's hand. Clinging as if to a lifeline, she let him pull her up astride the mare. As the villagers burst into the clearing, they lost their quarry in a half-glimpsed flash of white. The clearing resounded to what could have been hoofbeats, or the enduring thunder of a comber pounding the pebbles of the shore.
The Antagonist
Jensen stepped briskly from the orange-lit access corridor, and a thrill touched him as the confined echo of his footfalls fell away, lost amid the din of Point Station's docking hangar. Through the bustle of mechanics stripped to their thinsul suits, and the cross-bracing of gantry arms and loading winches, he found the object of his passion instantly. A smile of predatory satisfaction lit his face. She was exactly as they had described her, in tones that varied from frustration, to thwarted fury, to outright, obsessive longing: ugly, patch-painted, and scuffed, a typically hard-run small-time merchanter. Yet the awkwardly configured spacecraft under Jensen's eager scrutiny was nothing of the sort. His trained mind could admire the artistry with which her weaponry and shielding had been installed without marring her image of innocuous decrepitude. Jensen squared his shoulders, missing the stiff scrape of his ensign's collar. Like the deadly, efficient bit of machinery he viewed, he would use camouflage to disarm his prey. For the Marity was the love and the pride of MacKenzie James, a skip-runner wanted on eighty-six Alliance planets for illegal trafficking in weapons, treason, theft, and sale of classified Fleet documents. Piracy was not a trade for the cautious; the Fleet's autonomous diligence ensured that most skip-runner captains paid for their wealth with imprisonment or early death. But 'MacKenzie, James,' as the criminal files formally listed a man whose true name was only a matter of conjecture, was no ordinary skip-runner.
Mostly he was too good. The captains, officials, and highly placed admirals he had evaded, avoided, and unabashedly fooled in the course of his career made him dangerous, a topic of wild speculation in the barracks and the bars but one most scrupulously avoided in the company of superiors. To Michael Christopher Jensen, Jr, anyone who could engineer the skip-runner's long overdue arrest would gain promotion, accolades, and a reputation of undeniably proven merit. For a young man who had yet to earn 'his paint' in battle against the Khalia, MacKenzie James was a piece to be manipulated.
Jensen adjusted the unfamiliar ties of the Freer over-robe he had acquired with some difficulty for the occasion. He looked the part, he knew, with his rangy frame and dark hair and eyes; meticulous to the point of fussiness, he had made certain no detail was out of character. Like many a fringe worlder, Freerlanders liked independence a bit too well to submit to Fleet sanctions; skip-runner captains knew them as a dependable market for illicit weaponry. They were ornery enough, or maybe just proudly stubborn enough, that only the reckless interfered with them in public. Still, as the young officer strode into the chaos of the loading lanes, his palms sweated. His plan might be soundly designed, but he was not quite brash enough to be unafraid. Marity's master had ruined many a promising career before an unscheduled repair stop had delayed him; and though inconvenienced, MacKenzie James would never be caught unprepared.
Especially here; Point Station was a crossroads for the remote boundary of Carsey Sector, a center for commerce and intrigue only sporadically patrolled. Betweentimes, those goods and outbound colonists who were of questionable legal status arrived and departed with all the speed that over-used, outdated equipment could command. The ratchet of the winches was loud enough to drown thought, and the reek of heated machinery a metallic taint in the musty, recirculated air. Jensen made his wa
y cautiously. Ducking a trailing power cable, and wary of stepping into the path of the squat, radio-controlled light-loaders, he noticed the stares prompted by his black-fringed Freer robe. He adjusted his hood, careful to carry himself with the right degree of arrogance. His mimicry seemed effective. A dock worker stumbled clear of his way, and behind the periphery of the hood, someone else muttered, 'Pardon, Freerlander.'
Jensen buried his hands in red-banded cuffs and kept his steps light, as if he had grown up walking icy, wind-carved sands; nothing less than perfection would deceive MacKenzie James. As Marity's spidery bulk loomed closer, the time for second thoughts narrowed. Now, Jensen no longer regretted that necessity had forced him to include Ensign Shields in his plan. That she drifted just beyond Point's grav field perimeters in the dispatch courier Fleet Command had assigned to the pair of them now offered great reassurance. Though technically his senior, and compelled to collusion by a veiled threat of blackmail, she would not let him down. The moment her courier had altered course for Point Station, the Ensign was committed.
Jensen managed not to trip on any cables as he crossed the apron which separated Marity from the adjacent berth. Eyes narrowed beneath the fringe of his hood, he promised that overcoming Shields's reluctance would be the last time he traded upon his father's influence for his own gain. The man who arranged MacKenzie James's arrest could write any ticket he wished and with this in mind, Jensen studied the slots that recessed the studs of Marity's entry lock. The young Fleet officer repressed a whistle of admiration at the evident strength of her seals. No Freer ever uttered anything that resembled music outside of ritual. Such attention to detail was not misplaced, for a moment later he found himself noted by the ferret-quick gaze of the individual who served Marity as skip-runner's mate.
The man was typical of the type signed on by MacKenzie James. Young, athletic, and guaranteed to have no ties, he turned from wheeling a cargo capsule that had overlapping layers of customs stamps to mark a conspicuously legal course across Alliance space. The Freer robe drew his attention. An instant later, Jensen found his path blocked, and his hooded features under scrutiny by a pair of worldly eyes.
'You're here to see Mac James,' said the mate.
He placed slight emphasis on James, the Mac more a prefix than first name. Jensen considered this idiosyncrasy while returning a nod of appropriate Freer restraint.
The man smiled, suddenly older than his years. His thinsul suit hung loosely over his frame, no doubt concealing weapons. 'Godfrey, wherever we alight, and no matter how unexpectedly, you people seem to find us.' But his easy manner was belied by the tension in his stance.
Yet skip-runners could be expected to treat strangers with caution. Careful to pronounce the name precisely as Marity's mate had, Jensen said, 'Then Mac James is available?'
'Mac's topside.' His appraisal abruptly complete, the mate jerked his head for the young officer to follow, then gestured toward the open jaws of the lock.
Jensen took a slow breath, readjusted his Freer hood, and ducked under Marity's forward strut. He set foot on the loading ramp, and quashed a panicky urge to retreat. The burning ambition which held him sleepless each night drove him forward as the mate disappeared into shadow.
Jensen passed the lock. Marity's interior seemed dim after the arc lamps that illuminated Station's docks. His spacer's soles clung lightly to metal grating, the sort that adjusted on tracks to vary storage according to the demands of different cargoes. But as Jensen blinked to adjust his vision, he heard the clang of an innerlock; a cool draft infused the outer hold and by that he guessed that on the far side of that barrier Marity's resemblance to a merchant carrier must end. Only a craft that carried state of the art shielding and navigational equipment would trouble to control its atmosphere while in port.
The mate paused at the head of the corridor and called. 'Mac?'
A grunt answered from the ship's upper level, distorted into echoes by the empty hold.
'Company's here asking for you.' The mate waved for Jensen to pass him and continue alone down the access corridor. 'Ladder to the bridge is there to the left.'
Startled to be left on his own, Jensen crossed the threshold of the innerlock with his best imitation of Freer poise. He set cold hands to the ladder beyond. Faintly over the mate's receding footsteps, he heard the muted grind of light-loaders laboring outside of Marity's hull. Then the innerlock hissed shut. Irrevocably sealed off from Station, and isolated amid the hum of the air-circulating system, Jensen recognized the sizzle of a laser pencil cutting through cowling.
'Come to talk, or to tap-dance?' Marity's master called gruffly from above.
Jensen climbed. Sweating under his Freer cowl, he emerged in the windowless chamber of the bridge. Dead screens fronted the worn couches of two crew stations. The controls beneath were sophisticated and new, and somehow threatening without the array of labels and caution signs indigenous to Fleet military vessels. Jensen repressed a slight prickle of uneasiness. The man who flew Marity knew her like a wife; his mates without exception were pilots who could punch in and out of FTL or execute difficult dockings in their sleep.
'You're no Freer,' the captain's gravelly voice observed from behind.
Jensen whirled, fringes sighing across the top rungs of the ladder. Bent over the far console was the skip-runner half of Fleet command would trade their commissions to jail. Through the dazzle of the laser-pen, Jensen made out a dirty coverall with the clips half unfastened, knuckles disfigured with scars, and a profile equally blunt, currently set in a frown of concentration. Shadowed from the laser's glare by a flip-shield, eyes light as sheet metal never left the exposed guts of Marity's instrument panel, even as Jensen shifted a hand beneath his robe and gripped the stock of the gun hidden beneath.
'Care to tell why you're here?' The laser-pen moved, delicately, and the shift in light threw MacKenzie James's scarred fingers into high relief. With a small start, Jensen recognized old coil burns, from working on a ship's drive while the condensers were activated. The story was true, then, that Mac James had changed a slagged module barehanded to make his getaway the time he had sabotaged the security off Port.
Mesmerized by the movement of fingers that should by rights have been crippled, Jensen opened, 'You run guns,' and stopped. The man's directness had rattled him and he had neglected his guise of Freer restraint; but then, Mac James had already observed he was no Freer. Why, then, let him in at all? Taken aback, Jensen was unable to think, except to notice how remarkably deft the scarred hands were with the electronics.
'You're not here to negotiate business.' MacKenzie James joggled a contact, applied his pen, then thumbed the switch off. The laser snapped out, and Marity's master swung around, a hulking bear of a man with a spare brace of contact clips dangling from the head strap of his eye shield. He snapped up the plate, revealing a face of boyish frankness entirely at odds with his reputation.
Jensen opened his mouth to speak, and was cut off.
'You're Fleet, boy, don't bore me with lies.' Mac James whisked clips and shield from his forehead and threw them with a rattle into the disjointed segment of cowling. 'That makes you trouble, unwanted being the least damning complaint I have against you.' He leaned heavily on the back of the nearest crew chair, his manner distinctly exasperated. 'Don't bother with the gun, I know it's there.'
'Then you'll surrender your person without a fuss,' said Jensen, his confidence buoyed by the realization that the man he covered was sweating. 'Marity has skip-run her last cargo.'
MacKenzie James raked scarred fingers through a snarl of uncombed hair. 'Boy, you've put me in a very bad position, and I'm not known as a nice man.'
'That doesn't concern me.' Jensen eased the pellet gun from his robe, pleased that his hand was so steady. 'Your papers, Captain. Tell me where they are.'
MacKenzie James slung himself into the gimballed couch. Light from the overhead fixture flashed on the worn tag he wore on the chain at his neck. The lettering stamped i
n its surface was ingrained with dirt, legible even in dim light: 'MacKenzie, James, First Lieutenant.' That rumor also was true, Jensen reflected; or maybe part of it, that a two-credit whore from the Cassidas had gotten herself knocked up, then smuggled herself and her byblow into the quarters of her officer lover. An emergency call to action came through, and when the captain in command had discovered a civilian on board, he had dumped her through the airlock into deep-space as an example. Her lover had subsequently died in action. The kid, who may or may not have been related, had been signed over to some Alliance charity orphanage.
Though given a legal name, he never called himself by anything but the inscription on the dogtag, surname first; and harboring no love for the military, he grew up into the most wanted man in Fleet record.
MacKenzie James raised tired eyes. 'Boy, if you continue with this, all the wrong people are going to suffer.'
Jensen gestured with the barrel of the pellet gun. 'Who? Not all your clients are like the Freeborn, who think to beat the Khalia single-handed. The guns you skip-run are as likely to be used by criminals as in defense.'
'Godfrey,' said MacKenzie James with exactly the same inflection his mate had used earlier. 'Nobody informed me I was such an idealist.'
Marity shuddered slightly, as if jostled by on-loading cargo. MacKenzie James sighed with apparent resignation and said, 'My flight papers are in the starboard vault. Here's the key.'
His coil-scarred fingers moved, very fast, and switched on the laser-pen.
Jensen ducked the beam in time to save his eyes. He even managed to keep his pellet gun trained on the patch of sweaty chest exposed by MacKenzie's gaping coverall; but the young officer didn't fire, which proved a mistake.
Hands that by rights should have been ruined flicked a switch, and Marity came to life with a scream of drive engines. She tore her gantry ties, stabbed upward with her gravity accelerators wide open and smashed through the closed hangar doors. Jensen was thrown to the deck. He heard the wail of sheared metal as landing struts wrenched off. Marity jerked, half-spun, and yanked free, burning outward into deepspace and trailing a tumbling wake of debris. Horrified, Jensen imagined Point Station thrown into wobbling chaos: alarm sirens smothered by the inrush of vacuum, and the light-loaders' magnetic treads plodding mechanically over the dying thrash of the workers Marity had sacrificed to rip free.