Jo Clayton - Shadow of the Warmaster

Two hundred sixty-five days std. out of Telffer, according to ship’s log, we lifted off Tairanna and headed for the Limit.

As soon as we dived, Pels activated the squirtlink, sent the squeal to ti Vnok’s receptor, giving him the passpartout so he could get hold of the data packet, letting him know we had Leda Zag and Ilvinin Taivas so he could tell whoever was interested and stir us up some heavy support. The squeal was too short to trigger ears and even if someone got lucky, there were no tags on it to identify either end. The cover was down, I hoped it’d be thick enough to turn the knives waiting for us.

The trip went better than I expected.

Adelaar disappeared into Slancy ’s workshop with my home stats to get a start on redoing its security. This time I made sure Kinok kept ves tentacles out of her business. I swept the shop and removed all suspect foliage; like most of us, when it comes to someone outside the family, ves ethics get a bit shaky. Ethics aside, pulling her string about Churri was one thing, she got nasty on the verbal end and gave me a good flaying when she felt like it, but on the business end, she was a wall; she knew what she wanted and what she didn’t and no jabs would shift her; if she didn’t want snoops watching her work, that’s what she intended to get or she just might decide to ditch that part of the deal and more than ever I wanted her touch dressing up my house. Funny, having lived so long and semi-voluntarily acquired a body and with it a definite end to that life, I was beginning to appreciate the fragility of… well, everything.

Churri and Xalloor got together with the Omperiannas and began working out a new act; they figured that the publicity from the Return of the Disappeared and their connection with it made them a draw the bookers couldn’t ignore. Kumari figured the same thing; she was going to finance the tour if they came up with something she liked. Since they kept trying out parts of the thing on the ex’s in the hold, they kept the passengers happy and entertained. Which made me happy.

Aslan was something of a surprise. She worked on her reports a lot, but not all the time. I hadn’t paid much attention to her back on Tairanna, too busy being irritated by this and that, I suppose, and too tired from flying all night digging out the targets; you want another excuse, I’ve got this tendency to focus on what I’m busy at so I don’t see much of what’s around me, peripheral images shoved outside my periphery, if you know what I mean. She looked a little like her mother around the eyes and mouth, but her coloring was more dramatic, her features heavier… no, that’s not the word. Stagier. More dramatic like the coloring. The bones showed and they were what a sculptor called good. She photoed better than she looked in person, well, better’s not the word either, she was prettier in the stills, but a lot of the personality got lost. I remembered Adelaar saying Shuh! she’s my daughter and I love her, but even I wouldn’t call her a beauty. She’s not all that sexy either. To be honest, Quale, she’s a boring person. Just goes to show, Mama don’t know everything she thinks she does. It was a friendly time. Pleasant waking up and feeling her warm beside me. More than pleasant when she woke up. She enjoyed sex more than anyone I can remember knowing. Laughed a lot, made me laugh with her. I was almost sorry when Slancy chimed to let me know she was ready to slip back to realspace.

4. 354 days std. out of Telffer.

Helvetia.

We came up nose to nose with three destroyers and a gravity sink that nailed us; poor old Slancy couldn’t wiggle a fin.

Before I had time to start sweating, the mainscreen lit up. Helvetian perimeter patrol logo announcing who was out there, then someone who ordinarily walked in more exclusive circles. I knew that sour smile and the face it was tacked onto, though he didn’t know me and probably didn’t want to. The only time we actually met I was sharing someone else’s body. Malurio Marchog, the Seven’s Enforcer. Cattwey of the Helvetias. I relaxed. Home free, I thought.

“Swardheld Quale,” he said, proving me wrong about that much; he knew my face. Courtesy of ti Vnok, no doubt.

“Marchog Cattwey,” I said, showing I have my sources too.

“Permission to come aboard,” he said.

Polite bastard. What he meant was open your gd lock before I gd pull the gd thing off its hinges. Well, I asked for Helvetian cover, now I pay for it. “Permission herewith granted,” I said. “Want me to send a boat over or you providing your own transport?” That was a bit of swank; with the sink out there focused on us, we couldn’t space a fart.

He ignored it. “Helvetian rules apply out here as on the ground,” he said. “Crack your forward lock, portside.”

“I hear you, Marchog Cattwey.” It sounded like he was coming over himself, which was a bit of a surprise. Apparently that pair of rescuees down in the hold were mote important than we’d thought. Old ti Vnok, he slipped up this time; on the good side maybe, but definitely a miscalc. He’s going to have to work to live that down. I cracked the lock, sent Kumari to make sure N’Ceegh didn’t have some hold-outs tucked away; I wasn’t sure how much he knew about Helvetian rules and how seriously the Seven took them. I left Pels at the com and went down to the portlock to remind the Helvetians as tactfully as I could that this was my ship and we were outside the Limit, in so-called freespace. They’d probably be polite enough to listen without snickering. Even Marchog.

The inner hatch opened and I dumped the speech fast. Six pretors trotted through, shoved me against the wall, no malice, just getting me out of the way. They split, three on each side, dark, massive, huge, as intimidating as two-leggers in battle armor ever get when they’re not actually coming at you. I sucked in my gut and waited.

A mirror-sphere about two meters across floated from the lock, moving along half a meter off the floor at a pace about that of a man out for an afterdinner stroll. It stopped in front of me; I thought it was inspecting me though it’s hard to tell what’s going on inside something when you’re staring at a funhouse version of yourself smeared across the outside. “The people, where are they?” It had a deep bass voice that oozed with authority.

“The hold, despois,” I said, being as polite as I knew how. Great god, I was thinking, one of the Seven? Hooo-eee, talk about your heavy support.

“Lead,” it said.

Very careful to keep my hands in view, I moved past the pretors and started for the dropshaft. I heard the guard clumping into position behind me, the sound echoed by a second sextet coming out of the lock; somewhere back there Marchog was moving up to the Bridge with his own pretors; he wouldn’t leave Slancy in our hands, not with one of the Seven aboard her. I didn’t like it, but I certainly wasn’t going to kick up a fuss. All I could do was hope this was a temporary dispossession.

The hold smelled like a roadshow zoo; I suppose Faceless in his sphere got filtered air, but I didn’t, it was enough to choke a goat. He drifted out to the middle and hovered there, reflecting the faces or whatever turned up to him. “You were slaves?” The basso burred out and bounced off the walls.

Some of them knew what they were looking at; whoever didn’t was getting the word fast if the hissing that spread through the hold meant what I thought. The Kakeran Posa Ala was the first to answer. He set his hands on his hips, glared up at his distorted reflection. “Klaan vem!” he growled. “Bolodo man put a kujjim collar round my neck. Five kujjim years and nobody did shit till Quale there come for us.”