"We don't have enough fuel to reach it from here."
"Maybe not. But we have enough to get damn close." He motioned with the gun. "Get in the pilot's seat."
Balv knew this might be his last chance to make a move. He stood up, stepped away from the copilot's seat—and lunged for the Jumbler.
Kelric jerked away the gun, his movements mechanical, as if he were a puppet acting on reflex. It happened so fast that despite the accuracy and speed of Balv's lunge, his hand closed on air.
Kelric leveled the Jumbler at Balv. "Sit."
Balv froze. "You don't want to shoot me."
"That doesn't mean I won't."
Balv sat in the pilot's seat, his mind racing to find a solution. What if Kelric reached the port? Were the tales true, that entire worlds had been punished for an offense against the Rhon? If Kelric was their youngest, the one they felt most protective toward, their wrath would be even greater.
He looked up at his abductor. "I won't fly you to the port."
"Fly or I shoot."
Balv took a deep breath. "Then you'll have to shoot."
"You're willing to die to keep me here?"
"Yes."
Kelric stared at him as if he were trying to extract the truth of Balv's words from his brain. Then he jerked his gun toward the hatch. "Take what you need to survive and get out."
Balv jumped out of his seat and strode toward the back of the cabin, moving fast, before Kelric changed his mind. Kelric had already taken the stunner from the locker, so Balv grabbed a jacket and a box of flares to signal the search parties.
When Balv heaved open the hatch, chill wind blasted through the cabin, throwing back his hair. He jumped out onto the ice—encrusted rocks around the rider, where the snow that melted during their landing had refrozen.
Within seconds the rider was airborne, leaving Balv alone in the freezing wind.
A burst of static from the com jolted Kelric awake. One glance at the controls told him the craft was losing altitude. As he brought up the nose, the radio crackled again, with a voice buried in the static.
A Skolian voice.
". . . identify yourself. You are approach . . . Restricted zone off limits . . . identify. . ."
"I'm a Skolian citizen," Kelric rasped. His fever was worse now and his voice had grown so hoarse he could barely talk. "Do you read? I'm an Imperialate citizen."
". . . off limits to all Coban . . . identify yourself."
"Is anyone there?" he asked. "Anyone?"
The message continued to repeat.
The rider faltered, coughing and spluttering. A fast check showed what he had feared would result from his erratic flying: the fuel tanks were empty. As he opened the wings and rode the wind like a hawk, the desert sped upward in a blur of red.
Kelric did his best to control the dive, trying to glide on the wind. At the last moment, he hunched over and covered his head with his arms. With a shriek of splintering metal, the rider hit ground and plowed through the sand. The impact nearly tore him out of his seat despite the harness. The craft rolled over; wrenching him from side to side, and the crack of breaking glass added its cry to the chaos.
With a final shudder, the rider rocked to a stop. Slow and cautious, Kelric raised his head. The windshield was broken and the cabin looked like a storm had hit it. Equipment lay thrown all over the deck. Two passenger seats had ripped loose and his Jumbler lay smashed under a crumpled section of the hull. His Quis dice were scattered everywhere, most of them crushed.
Kelric untangled himself from his seat, moving stiffly, both from the damage he had sustained during the crash and from the fever raging in his body. He limped across the cabin, picking his way over the debris The rider rocked, then listed to one side leaving the deck at a slant that sent him sliding into the hatch.
The buckled door came loose under his shove and fell out onto the desert. Scorching wind poured into the cabin, accompanied by a rain of sand that insinuated itself everywhere. Raising his arm to protect his eyes, he climbed out into the heat.
Red desert stretched everywhere. Nothing but sand, sand, sand, and the towers that reached into a pale blue sky like fingers from a giant buried hand—
Towers?
Kelric squinted in the heat shimmer of the air. Then he grinned.
It was the starport.
Lift one foot. Put it down. Again and again and again . . .
The impact of his body against sand jarred Kelric out of his daze. He rolled onto his back and stared at the twilit sky. The stars dazzled. It didn't matter that Coba had no moon. She had enough stars to light a hundred nights.
"Port," he mumbled. He climbed back to his feet and resumed his trudge.
Deceptive sands. He had forgotten how a desert could lie. The towers had taunted him all day with their distance, coming closer with maddening slowness. But he was almost there now. He could make out the ISC insignia on the tallest structure. Even in a fully automated port regulations required at least one shuttle be available for transport.
Fevered thoughts darted though his mind. When he reached HQ he had to report on Coba. lSC would take a long look at the Twelve Estates. It was obvious Coba claimed rich resources, both in material terms and the harder-to-quantify value of human mind and culture. Had the Cobans been more accommodating in their first contacts with ISC, Coba might have earned Imperial citizenship, but now he had no idea what would happen. ISC would see their unpredictable behavior as a potential threat.
And Deha? Imperial law recognized marriages on any planet under ISC jurisdiction, including Restricted worlds. Dissolving his union with Deha would require legal action, and if he revealed the circumstances of its formation she would come up on criminal charges. Given his titled position within the lmperialate, she was in serious trouble. He didn't want her destroyed that way. Hell, he wasn't even sure he wanted the marriage dissolved.
He would have to make his report with caution, when his mind was clear. Stress how these people saved his life. If he wasn't careful, he could destroy the Cobans because he was too clumsy with words to choose ones that would ward off the wrath of ISC and his family. When this fever cooled he could think better.
What would happen if he got into space and the fever grew worse? Any shuttle in an automated backwaters port like this would be bottom-of-the-line, with minimal medical facilities. The fever was devastating his system, raging faster than his crippled nanomeds could fight it. if he didn't cool it off, the shuttle would deliver a corpse to ISC. Then what would happen to Coba?
The growl of an automated crane lifting freight interrupted his thoughts He was Close enough now to see it moving within the port.
But there was still another rumble.
An engine?
Kelric spun around and stared at the sky. Stark against a crimson sunset, the black silhouette of a rider was growing in size.
"No!" he shouted. "Not now."
Combat mode toggled, Bolt thought. Whirling around, Kelric ran for the starport, using enhanced speed.
Warning. Bolt created a display of statistics. Femur, tibia, and fibula hydraulics malfunctioning. Sciatic fiberoptic thread: 48 percent loss of efficiency. Auriculotemporal thread misfiring. Estimat&*—3##
The growl behind him swelled into a roar. Then a shadow passed over his head. He shouted a protest, his voice lost in a thunder of engines as the rider skimmed along the ground in front of him. Even before it rolled to a full stop, its hatch burst open and his escort was jumping out, Balv included.
Kelric tried to veer away. Bolt should have analyzed the terrain, his reflex libraries should have guided his feet, and his hydraulics should have supported the abrupt direction change. Somewhere the system failed. He tripped and fell forward, slamming into the sand.
As he struggled to his knees in the evening's fading light, he saw the guards running toward him.
Kyle magnification activated, Bolt thought.
Deactivate! Kelric thought.
Preparing attack.
>
No! He shouted the thought. You can't use my brain for that! STOP!
But he had pushed his injured systems too far one too many times. The safety protocols failed and an attack exploded out from his Kyle centers, amplified so far beyond what his brain could tolerate that Bolt quit trying to calculate the resulting damage and just flashed red warnings all over the disintegrating display of stats. Uncontrolled, the attack slammed into the escort with a force only a member of the Rhon could summon.
Kelric tried to stop the onslaught, cut it off, swamp it out, anything to end the nightmare. But his damaged systems refused to respond. The signal held true, unrelenting, dragging him further and further into his link with the escort, until their identities merged.
He was Hacha, level after level of personality, each peeling back like a skin: strength, traditionalism, pride in her work, love for her husband and child. Rev's mind was a complex of dice patterns, shifting, unceasing. He lived Quis, thought Quis, dreamt Quis . . . Balv thought of flying, of his family, of his job. Impressions of Llaach lanced though the barrage; newest member of the escort, least confident. Deeper down he found her love of her husband: Jevi, Calani.
Like a runaway web virus, Kelric's amplified signals ate away at their minds. Llaach buckled first, her neurotransmitters going wild, attacking her own brain cells. As she died, Kelric screamed, dying with her, experiencing every instant of it, unable to break the link that bound the five of them together.
And when the other three guards began to die, Kelric finally, in desperation, broke the link by breaking his own mind.
8
The Square
"The Tribunal of Dahl," Chankah said, "is now convened."
She stood in the Hall of Voices, a large room paneled in wood, filled with a sense of antiquity. The table in front of her reflected light from amber-glass lamps overhead. At her back, a rail set off a gallery filled with benches. An empty gallery. This Tribunal was closed to the public.
The Estate aide Corb stood at her side, adjusting his spectacles. About five paces in front of them, the judges sat at their high bench. looking down from its gleaming expanse of darkwood. Their robes rustled as they moved. For this case there were six judges instead of the usual three: two on defense, two on prosecution, and two neutral, including the Elder Judge.
The Elder regarded Chankah. "Successor Dahl, do you agree to act as Estate Manager until Deha Dahl can once more assume her duties?"
"Yes," Chankah said. No, she thought. Not this way. But no Choice existed. Deha—her lifelong mentor—lay near death in the aftermath of a massive heart attack brought on by whatever had happened three days ago, out in the desert.
One fact remained clear: Llaach was dead. Although the Tribunal would focus primarily on her death, the ramifications of any decisions made here would go much further than Llaach. The future of the Twelve Estates was at stake.
"We shall begin," the Elder said. She waited until Chankah and Corb sat down, then said, "Bring in the Tribunal party."
An Estate aide pulled back the bolts in a door to the left of the bench and leaned her weight into it. With the creak of old wood, the portal slowly swung open.
The Voice entered first, a tall man in a violet robe, his silvered hair swept back from his face. The witnesses came next: guards from the city, airfield personnel, doctors Rohka and Dabbiv, and Captain Hacha. The captain looked pale, but her walk was steady.
They brought Kelric in last.
Dressed in a black prison uniform, he walked surrounded by an octet of guards. A chain four handspans long joined the iron manacles fastened around his wrists above the gold gleam of his Calanya guards. Watching him, Chankah felt a sense of grief. So much was lost, both for Dahl and for Kelric, all because he had the misfortune to crash on a world where he was both coveted and feared.
The Voice crossed to a table on Chankah's right and the aide directed the witnesses to the gallery. The Square of Decision stood to the left, a chair surrounded by a wooden rail. The guards seated Kelric in the chair and took up posts around the rail.
The Elder spoke. "Before we begin, do any here have petitions that concern this Tribunal?"
The large number of people who approached the gallery rail worried Chankah. How could there be so many petitioners when so few citizens knew what had happened? She had kept the incident quiet, backed in her decision by the Ministry. If knowledge spread about Kelric's identity, it could start a panic. News of Llaach's death had leaked into the Quis, but most people believed she died apprehending a Dahl citizen who had stolen a windrider. Chankah had revealed the full story only to a select few: city elders, top officials, and Deha's kin.
Four people stood in the first group: two women and two men. "Please identify yourselves," the Elder said.
"I am Yeva," the first woman an swered. "Two decades ago, before Deha Dahl became Manager she worked in the Children's Cooperative During that time she was my primary guardian."
"I am Tabbol," the first man said. "Manager Dahl was my guardian in the Cooperative."
"I am Sabhia," the second woman said. "Manager Dahl was also my guardian."
The younger man spoke last. He watched the judges with familiar eyes, huge and black like dark pools. "I am Jaymson Deha Dahl is my mother."
Chankah stared at him It had been longer than she realized since she had seen Jaymi. He wasn't "Jaymi" anymore. Deha's son, her only biological child, had grown into a man.
"What is your petition?" the Elder asked.
Yeva read from a document in her hand. "If Manager Dahl dies as a result of her heart seizure, Sevtar Dahl should be tried for her murder as well as that of Llaach Dahl." .
Chankah almost swore. Did they realize what they were asking? Whether they acknowledged it or not, Kelric was their stepfather. All they saw in him was the conqueror incarnate, a nightmare come to life. Watching Jaymson, she felt a deep loss. She suspected he would have liked Kelric once he had the chance to know him, but that would never happen now.
"Your charge is severe," the Elder said. "On what grounds do you bring it?"
"On the grounds," Yeva said, "that Manager Dahl's condition is a direct result of the accused's actions."
The Elder considered her. "This is not a murder trial. We are met to determine what transpired in the desert, why Llaach Dahl died, and what our response should be." She paused. "Given the far-reaching ramifications of any decisions we make here, your petition will require a private conference by the Bench."
"I understand," Yeva said. "We await your decision." She gave her document to the Tribunal aide and withdrew with her group.
Chankah recognized the second petitioner: Avahna Dahl, Speaker for the Calanya. The painful duty of telling Llaach's husband that his wife had died had fallen to Chankah. When he requested to see the Speaker, she thought he wanted to send a message to Llaach's kin. Avahna's presence here was an unwelcome surprise.
The aide Corb spoke to her in a low voice. "Are you going to allow this? What if Jevi demands Sevtar's life for Llaach's?"
Chankah pushed her hand through her hair. "It's Jevi's right to petition. Just pray we don't have to intervene."
Avahna said, "I speak for the Calani Jevi."
"What is his request?" the Elder asked.
"He asks," Avahna said, "that if the Bench acquits the accused, then Sevtar never be allowed to live in the Dahl Calanya. Should this be unacceptable, Jevi asks to leave Dahl for the Calanya of another Estate."
Sympathy gentled the Elder's face. When she glanced toward the table, Chankah nodded, relieved.
The Elder turned to Avahna "You may tell Jevi his petition is granted."
Avahna bowed. "Thank you, your Honor."
The final petitioner was a woman with coppery curls spilling down her back. She wore the blue jumpsuit of a guardian from the Children's Cooperative and looked ill at ease in the severity of the court.
The woman took a breath. "I am Chala Dahl. I represent the Elders of the Dahl residences: the Women
's House, Men's House, Couples' House, Parents' House, and Children's Cooperative." She shuffled her papers self—consciously, then read from one. "Although we abhor the nature of the events that led to this Tribunal, we feel compelled to make this statement: there have been no executions for centuries. If Sevtar Dahl is given such a sentence, it will set us back to an age when violence was our way of life. For this reason we exhort you to refrain from any such ruling."
Yeva jumped to her feet. "I object to this girl's claim—"
"You are out of order," the Elder judge said.
"Your Honor, I apologize," Yeva said. "But this girl claims to represent all Houses of the city when in fact she speaks only the naive opinions of a few people."
Chankah stood and the petitioners fell silent. She considered Yeva. "Do you claim to represent the Houses of Dahl?"
"Successor Dahl." Yeva bowed. "All I state is this: the severity of the crimes brought before this Bench require measures of equal severity when dealing with the perpetrator."
Perpetrator. Chankah frowned. Yeva spoke as if Kelric's guilt were already decided. The hearing hadn't even begun and already they had convicted him. It undermined the very foundation of a Tribunal, which was that the person who sat in the Square of Decision should receive a fair hearing. They needed to cool off the courtroom, give the tension time to ease. Chankah turned to the Elder and the judge nodded, understanding her unspoken message.
The Elder regarded Yeva. "If you wish to present a statement, you may do so prior to the morning session tomorrow." She turned to Chala. "We will take your petition into consideration."
Chala and Yeva nodded. After everyone had taken their seats, the Elder picked up a mallet and knocked it against a small gong on the bench. "This Tribunal is now in session." She turned to the Voice. "Evid Dahl, step forward."
The Voice went to stand before the Bench.
"Do you swear to remain impartial when you question the witnesses?" the Elder asked.