Gammalaw: Smoke on the Water Page 11

  Ghost was monitoring drop operations on a nearby PA holo terminal. Burning was on his way to join her when a voice spoke behind him, thick with distaste. "Preferable, in my opinion, to dispense with this flycast ride and simply march out an air lock, sparing ourselves a great deal of pointless delay and vain hope."

  Lod, who had spent the subjective months of the voyage brooding, was pulling ineffectually at the adjustment tabs and keepers of his battlesuit. He had gotten it to fit perfectly but was never going to get it to look stylish. It didn't help his natti-ness quotient any that he had neatly graffitoed the suit's back "RANDOM EXECUTIONS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES."

  "You have a mission critique, Cousin?" Burning inquired politely.

  Lod's small chin jutted out. "I'm trillions of klicks from my favorite chef, I keep hearing ominous jabber about field maneuvers, and it smarts when I urinate. Plus, you didn't even have the decency to draft my tailor when you shanghaied me."

  "The supply sergeant's your tailor now, Cuz," Ghost commented as she approached them. "And I for one think you look dashing." She squared away the shoulders of Lod's battlesuit.

  Its pouches and loops were empty; he refused to carry so much as a spit needle. With his unlined face and profuse golden hair, he resembled one of Ghost's taller killer children.

  Lod was as fond of Ghost as she was of him in her own unfathomable way but at that moment was doing his best to conceal it.

  "I told you both, I'll never forgive you." He toed his bulging duffel. "The least you could've done was get someone to fetch my luggage."

  "It improves your posture," Burning said.

  The hull boomed as the tethercraft and onboard locks equalized pressure, then undogged. The PA began nagging the Exts to stand by, but everyone pointedly continued his or her lounging, awaiting the Allgrave's order by way of company commanders and platoon leaders.

  Commotion was a given in the passageways, but the one suddenly moving in Burning's direction caught his ear because it sounded so civilian.

  "—exactly right, Nike, my sweet! The interior of a starship is the perfect set for a reinterpretation because, after all, the central metaphor of And on the Way, We Dropped It is human beings trapped in surreal surroundings and cut off from their natural environment—"

  At the same time some nameless liaison geartooth was yelling, "Hit the walls! Make a hole! Hierarch Dextra Haven coming through!" Whoever was yelling it was shouldering up through the tour group's rear guard.

  Burning eyed what had to be Dextra Haven, a voluptuous, self-possessed woman who stood about collarbone-high to him, wearing a civilian fieldsuit that looked couturier-made but very serviceable and tafo-toed deck boots with gripsoles. Point to a pack of young adults, she was coming his way with breezy elegance and an aura of royalty that had lolling Exts impressed enough to retract their feet. She had mounds of ink-black hair and sloe-lavender eyes that put him in mind of Egyptian wall paintings. Her mourn was a lush recurve, mobile and cunning.

  "I ask you, Nike," Haven was saying to the young woman beside her, "what are the Exts but today's counterparts to my play's All-Fodder Chorus?"

  The half dozen others in the entourage didn't resemble any Periapts Burning had encountered and didn't look like LAWs at all. They were an even mix of men and women of assorted shapes and sizes. The variety and flamboyance of their clothes made him wonder if somebody was throwing a costume party forward of Frame 104. An Elizabethan ruff, high-top Romanesque sandals, tasseled Chechia caps, ballet skinsheaths, slippers… The hairstyles were hayricks, alleychics, boetians, and the like.

  The one named Nike was a pretty ingenue in dance tights and a beautifully embroidered doublet, her auburn hair in a bowl cut. She carried an instrumented monocle that she held to her eye and panned around every few seconds.

  Only one of the pack stood out as not being part of the ambient fabulousness: a midsize woman with tow hair done in a combed retro look. Or was she a he? Burning couldn't tell because of the loose-fitting civilian shipsuit. But whatever it was, it had a striking Slavic face and moved with the kind of tightly knit grace and certainty of body placement that marked good martial artists.

  While Burning was trying to make up his mind about the towhead's gender, Lod slipped past him to make a Umber kowtow to Dextra Haven.

  "Madame Hierarch, light of the Lyceum! Greetings, radiant lady!" He had one hand out to her palm up, the other over his heart.

  Haven appeared charmed by the blandishment. She showed Lod an arch smile, though Burning thought she seemed distracted.

  Lod's smooth uptake made Burning appreciate all the more the fact that he'd brought his clever little cousin along. He himself had no idea what the protocol should be, and nobody had mentioned anything about a top-echelon VIP party onboard Damocles.

  Lod was still shoveling it on. "I speak for the exalted All-grave of the Exts and the rest of our unit when I declare the honor you do us by your gracious visit, Madame Hierarch!" He introduced Burning and Ghost before adding, "I'm Major Lod of the clan Orman, battalion liaison and protocol officer—your admiring servant!"

  It was the first Burning had heard of such a job slot in the provisional battalion's TO&E, much less of Lod's occupying it. He decided to head off the sycophancy.

  But he was beaten to it by Commander Rampling, the LOGCOM coordinator, who had been yelling from the back and now came rushing up, looking apoplectic. "Madame Hierarch, this part of the vessel is off-limits to civilians. We cannot have you and your entourage in an operational embarkation area."

  The Exts on the sidelines were so interested in the goings-on that the gambling had stopped. Lod was about to insinuate himself again when Burning pulled him out of the cross fire. The androgynous one in the ciwie shipsuit had moved up wordlessly to stand within striking range of the commander, silently watching.

  "Commander Rampling, is it?" Haven said. "Between now and the time your disciplinary board's convened, I suggest that you review your facts." She motioned to Nike. "Citizen Lightner and her distinguished guests are scouting locations by the arrangement of her father, Hierarch Calvin Lightner, for a revival of a play of which I am the author. I am here as part of a prescheduled Lyceum inspection junket, but as a Hierarch and especially as chair of the general oversight committee, it's my prerogative to visit government facilities and vessels." Dextra Haven's face had gone cold and hard. "Now go inform your superiors that I intend to block the military pay hike bill, if only to demonstrate how I dislike being pestered by a brass hat rack like you."

  Bled the air right out of his helmet, Burning mused as Rampling withdrew in apologetic disorder.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  Dextra let go a mental sigh of relief as the LOGCOM officer retreated, leaving her momentarily unhindered. Maybe she could rescue the Exts, after all, and rescue Aquamarine while she was at it, if the voice of the Quantum College was to be believed.

  The very idea seemed insane now that she stood before them at last, one nonviolent and recently soft-living politician out to save hundreds of flinty-eyed, battlesuited combat vets. But the anonymous message from the QC had been definite on the point, and what facts she had been able to root out with her own discreet inquiries seemed to support it. LAW had paid lip service to the recruited Exts, but the actual preparations—refurbishing quarters and facilities, shiftings funds and equipment, transportation and other resources—hadn't gone anywhere.

  Then there was the secret transferral of hecatomb from a police evidence depository, just as she had been told. None of Dextra's sources had been able to provide hard evidence or verifiable data on what was to be done with it.

  To denounce LAW's termination scheme on the floor of the Lyceum with no more proof than a blind message from the officially proscribed QC underground would have been political suicide. The Preservationists would have howled for a recall election, and some Rationalists probably would have gone along with it rather than suffer the blowback a fight would have entailed.
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  In the meantime, LAW might simply put the tethercraft massacre on hold and expunge the Exts at a later date. What Dextra had to do was get them alive to Abraxas, where she could build media awareness of them. Public fancy would forestall PolSec from any extreme wetwork for the time being.

  The only method of ensuring that was to make use of Nike Lightner's coterie both as a political shield and as a spotlight of public attention. Nike had been thrilled to hear that Dextra was amenable to shooting a revival of And on the Way, We Dropped It and positively delighted with the idea of staging it onboard a starship.

  Tonii had argued against the plan, then had insisted on going along when Dextra wouldn't be dissuaded. With the LOGCOM officer hurrying off and the members of Nike's retinue trying to outdo one another in their enthusiasm, the gynander now retreated into the background. The tethercraft operation would soon be a matter of independent public record. Dextra hoped that the exposure would be all the weapon she needed, because it was about all she'd been able to come up with on short notice.

  "What a figmental place to stage the play!" Nike said suddenly, throwing an arm around her. "I've never seen Lazlo-Lazlo so inspired!"

  She indicated the fatigued-looking young guy in pseudo-Victorian dress.

  "If that's inspiration, what's his boredom like," Dextra asked under her breath, "cachesleep?"

  "Fiction and drama are dead," Lazlo-Lazlo pronounced, stifling a yawn. "The vicarious reality of electronic reportage and documentary has eclipsed them. Still, this setting has an undeniable absurdist legitimacy."

  Dextra patted Nike's arm. "Sweetie, I want you to meet Emmett Orman, Allgrave of the Exts; his sister, urn, Ghost; and their cousin, Major Lod." She studied the trio for a moment, then added, "Lady and gentlemen, would you do me the honor of accompanying me and my party down the well to Periapt? Moving into a bay farther aft, I've got a passenger shuttle mat should be able to accommodate the entire Ext contingent."

  A few members of Nike's troupe complained that they hadn't absorbed enough of Damocles's aesthetic auras yet, but Dextra wasn't in the mood to linger longer than necessary.

  Lod tugged at the Allgrave's elbow. "Cousin, we thank the Hierarch for her gracious invitation, don't we?"

  "Uh, yes, of course," the Allgrave answered somewhat mechanically. When General Delecado approached, Orman spoke briskly: "We're leaving with Madame Haven, here, from lock number—"

  "Eight-sigma," Tonii supplied for Dextra.

  "Send one runner forward to tell Zone," the Allgrave resumed, "and post a rear guard here in case the runner doesn't connect." He swung to Dextra. "Will that be all right, ma'am?"

  "'Ma'am,' how debonair," she remarked casually, "But warn them that I' 11 be forced to leave them behind if they're not at the shuttle directly. You know how it is."

  Nike gathered her little artbeat flock and headed off. Major Lod proffered his arm, but Dextra pretended not to notice. Orman gave a hand signal, and the Exts fell in along either bulkhead.

  Dextra heard him add a watchword for them to pass back.

  "Zanshin."

  * * * *

  As she led the way, Dextra steeled her nerve. It helped to have Tonii there, a silent step behind her.

  To her relief, the Exts hadn't balked, although Emmett Orman was wearing a wary expression. They made their way aft with a kind of focused ease, a calm attentiveness to the details around them.

  The shuttle was in place, fueled and replenished to take planetside a cargo of Concordance artifacts Commissioner Renquald had sent home to his dynastic group, though the actual loading hadn't commenced. The pilot and copilot were having a confab with some LOGCOM people when Dextra, Nike's troupe, and the Exts arrived.

  Dextra gave the two men no time to mull over their options. "Flight crew aboard, please. I'm preempting payload space on a Lyceum priority."

  In her war correspondent days she had sneaked a wounded

  Reformist—a local who had acted as her interpreter—past Fundamentalist pogrom units to safety. Her heart hadn't whomped in her throat in quite the same way until this moment.

  The shuttle crew chief stalled, "But—but we yanked the seating modules for cargo space."

  Dextra tugged at the integral fast-roping harness built into the Allgrave's battlesuit. There were also carabiners and assorted short lines and straps, neatly rolled and secured. "The deck couplings will do nicely for tie-downs, Orman," she suggested. "If you're game, that is."

  Orman shrugged. "Delta-V, Hierarch Haven. That way there'll be no squabbling over aisle seats."

  * * * *

  Burning's reflex was to stand fast until Dextra Haven told him what was really happening, but his instinct was to get everyone off Damocles by any means possible. Why, after all, should a Hierarch display such nervousness aboard one of LAW's most powerful spacecraft? Lod, too, seemed all in favor of abandoning ship, and he had a sixth sense about which way to jump in the murk of guile and counterguile. As for the rest, they were deep in zanshin.

  One of the core disciplines of the Skills, "remaining mind" was a concept borrowed from Old Earth's bujutsu fighting arts. It was the state of unfailing alertness, constant preparedness to react or take action, a primary tool for harnessing Flowstate to Skills applications. A good Skillsfighter was in or near zanshin most of the time, but it hadn't hurt to remind the Exts when they'd moved out.

  Burning made a low back-and-forth hand signal to Wetbar, Zone's XO, who had been left in charge of B Company. "Get aboard and secure the spacecraft."

  Wetbar added his own signals, and his first platoon double-timed into the ship by fire teams. Nike Lightner's followers looked poleaxed by the realization that they had all at once become bit players in what seemed a very grave drama.

  Burning heard Haven urge Nike toward the air lock: "You dears had better get to the jumpseats before they're taken."

  For all her effervescence, Cal Lightner's daughter was no naif; aware now that she'd been used, she gave Haven a furious glance. Burning moved to block her path of escape; whatever was going down, this was no time to lose the added insurance she'd provide. Nike made a quick decision and led her nervous flock down the boarding well in the wake of the B Company Exts.

  The shuttle crew remained rooted, however, the pilot making uncooperative grunting noises. Dextra glanced to Burning, and Burning glanced to Daddy D. The general held up his giant old hawkbill knife, flicked it open, and began cleaning his nails with it while exchanging stares with the pilot.

  The aero officer quieted, and the flight crew was herded onto the shuttle. The LOGCOMs backed away as the passageway grew crowded with Exts filing into the shuttle's boarding well.

  Zone finally appeared with Kino and Strop from his several, along with the runner Burning had dispatched and the man he had posted at the tethercraft's air lock. All were cross-slung with bandoliers packed with cassettes of caseless ammunition.

  "They doped the ammo somehow," Zone told Burning on the sly, giving a thumbs-down. "Even the stuff the cadre hung on to. I tried to let off a round—nothing. And the LOGs claim they can't find the power packs for the sonics."

  Burning looked to the transshipping Exts. B company was already onboard and A Company was half gone, but movement had stopped, backed up. To make matters worse, the Discards were nearby and acting edgy. Getting their ammo away from them might have led to a firefight if not for Ghost. The kids were fingering their empty weapons, bunching up for the only comfort they trusted—one another.

  The thud of lug-soled boots brought Burning around in time to see a LAW Special Troops colonel, flanked by a pair of Manipulants, hastening his way. Burning gave a low, curt whistle that was relayed into the shuttle and back along C Company, while Dextra Haven stepped forward to motion the colonel to stay back.

  The colonel gargled a quick command to his engeneered soldiers in the privy battle-gullah they shared, and the two ogres paused a step behind him. As an officer of Manipulants, he wore a uniform different from regular LAW ground
force issue. He was armed with a stun baton, beltknife, and pepper-foam shooter but no firearm—not onboard a spacecraft. The Manipulants were equipped the same way, their gear scaled to their size.

  "Madame Hierarch, you can't seriously be thinking of escorting these troops downside," he risked after a moment. "Perhaps you and Hierarch Lightner's daughter should accompany us."

  "I'm as serious as a pallbearer," Haven answered, careful to keep out of his reach. "Be so good as to finish boarding," she threw over her shoulder to Burning. "We are, as they say, winging it."

  Advancing on Dextra, the Special Troops officer put his thumb to a small belt unit and pressed. Abruptly, compartment hatches slid open along the passageway. At the same time, the two gargoyles who had been flanking him went for Burning and Ghost. Out from the interconnected engineering and maintenance spaces to either side charged platoons of Manipulants bent on closing with the Exts hand to hand.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Tell me about that final night on Aquamarine, the court-appointed lawyer, Deitz, had said to him. Memory had risen up before Claude Mason's eyes, almost as if the years had been wiped away.

  He and Incandessa, who was heavy with their child, were standing on the lighthouse's uppermost promenade when Hippo Nolan, the survey team's engineer, came pounding into sight around the broad curve of the tower.

  Boon's gone synapshit, Hippo shouted. He's trying to stop the suicides!

  Is Boon drunk? Mason wondered. But no, not Saint Boon. It was just that a group of Conscious Voices were threatening to take their own lives in a last-ditch attempt to hoodoo the survey team—the Visitants—into remaining onworld and sharing power with the Aquam. Boon had decided to throw in with them.

  Mason had had little patience with Aquamarine's innumerable cults and creeds, but the enmity of the Conscious Voices had come as a painful shift in relationships.