Stardogs, page 9
Naturally, the Countess was delighted. That was the thing about dear brainless Caro. She really was delighted. She parted from the young leaguesman without any signs of distress. Out of the corner of her eye the Princess noticed that he too was unperturbed, but the ungentlemanly older leaguesman who had rudely avoided giving Tanzo his arm, was plainly pleased.
Once the bodyguards had checked the room, and removed themselves to their outer enclave, she sat in front of the huge mirrors at her dressing table. The maids temporarily dismissed, Shari and the Countess enjoyed a comfortable, private tete-a-tete. Caro Leyven’s slim, delicate fingers carefully teased loose the tissue-thin illuminated pictures painted onto mica-sections which the ladies of fashion wore on their nails. “Cutting a dash with that young Leaguesman, Lady Caro?”
The honey-blond countess shrugged. “He’s nice. But men always are.”
Shari lifted an eyebrow. Her fashion-conscious companions insisted they were too thick and too dark, but she could bring herself to have them removed. “Not the older one. He won’t pay you any attention.”
The Countess twitched her full lips. “Oh? We’ll see.”
The Princess said no more. There was no need.
Liton sat. Somewhat uncomfortably. He longed to go and suit up, to go out to Shahjah. But that too-clever Wienan had said to wait, so wait he did. He watched the floor-plate before him slide away with something akin to horror. If it had not been for the Stardogs obvious happiness he would have run. A moment later he was down on Shahjah’s dark skin. Actually touching it flesh to flesh. It was cool, but far from the temperature of space. He would have frozen onto that on contact. And there was none of the filament fur that coated the dogs. The how-what-why questions Shahjah answered for him into his own mind, even before he had finished thinking them. This part of her was normally covered yes, but it had lips that could part and seal around the outer lip of the cockpit. The underside of the cockpit had heating panels which then warmed the skin-surface until the panel opened. The old ones had liked to touch the dogs. It was nice to feel him there, much better than the usual way humans rode. Now, if he would just scratch the nodes up on the top edge…
The tugs had cast loose. Shahjah began accelerating the drift. Using existing V and tiny compensations of lateral thrust to drop in to the G point. The web of complex nerve endings on the fringes of the Stardog’s mantle made it able to detect the smallest of variations in gravity. The total flexibility of the mantle made the response of the Stardogs gas-flare emissions amazingly precise. Mechanical spacecraft were capable of greater acceleration, but they came nowhere near the manoeuvrability and efficiency of Stardogs.
Liton began imaging the steps to the Abelard Solar System. He had excellent photographs and a detailed knowledge of all 432 worlds, or at least how they looked from space. Excellent visual memory was a rider’s most essential requirement, even more than a close tie with his or her Stardog. Otherwise the animals would take you leapfrogging all over the place, as they had in the early days of exploration. It was a typical piece of League logic. They taught you 432 and allowed you to use perhaps twenty for the rest of your life. Abelard was a familiar enough destination. But he wished he knew where they were going after that.
Then they broke into the mind-jarring reality of surf. Like riding the tumbling cascade of a broken wave, it was another arena in which the biologically adapted Stardog beat any mechanical competitor to smithereens. The dogs had huge, multi-sectored brains, with a very different synapse transmission system to carbon-lifeforms. Most of the brain-space was simple reaction-feedback loops. All of this was needed to survive the ever changing nature of between. To outsiders, the Stardogs’ transition between here and elsewhere was miraculously easy. To the riders it was simply miraculous. It was a buffety ride this time. Shahjah was struggling to keep up. Over the years there had been gradual irreparable damage to some of her nerve nets. Now each time they went through surf was an agony of fear for Liton. He was not afraid for himself. He was afraid that she might not make it. And now, for the first time, he was afraid for their cargo. He was involved in something far bigger than himself, or even Shahjah.
They made it. Step one. Another seven steps out to the rim. Liton stretched out on the soft ridges of rugose hide, exhausted. At least his Stardog could rest now. It would be at least a day before they were in position to surf onward. After a few minutes the Leaguesman prodded him to his feet, and he had to leave his contact with Shahjah and head for his small cell.
“I get the feeling there is something odd going on. What do you think?” Johannes asked as he sunk back onto the soft cushions of his bed, to allow Lila to pull his boots off.
She actually stopped what she was doing. “You are asking me, Sir?” There was no way she could keep the surprise out of her voice.
He was surprised himself. “Sure. Why not? You’re human aren’t you?”
“It is the first time in eight years my master has ever noticed that!” she said, tartly. Instantly she was contrite. “I am sorry master. I’m a debt-slave. It is not my place to have opinions.”
He shrugged and stood up, and raised his arms so that she could take off his tunic. “I know you are not stupid. It just never occurred to me to ask you questions before. You don’t have to answer me. I just wish I could consult Jan-Pieter 19.”
That sent a shiver through her. But then, Jan-Pieter’s name was enough to make most people shiver.
Four days later they arrived in the Abelard system. Dumped V on a tangential to the G points. Swung in towards the dun and pale blue of Abelard 2 and the familiar metal wheel of its Space-Station. Soon Liton knew he would be heading into the strip-search of League-Customs. But the vial he had been passed had carefully been broken open and rubbed into a fold of Shahjah’s rugose skin. He had much on his mind. They would be off-ship for a week, then they would cross League-sectors. In the rider-compound below he would ask for messages to be taken across. It was a rare opportunity.
Shari had spent her whole life knowing that the time was coming when either her brother or somebody else would decide to have her killed, and that not all Deo’s ingenuity could stop the assassins once her fate had truly been decided. But one can only stay terrified for so long, and then you become increasingly blas� about living on the edge. At least, you could either become nonchalant about it, or lose your wits, and she still had all of hers. The small dog on her lap sat up and licked her nose. She hugged him. He might spoil her make-up, but at least he would never betray her. She reached into her purse for a small compact. A brass-band reception awaited her landing. She’d go through this last trip like an Imperial Princess, dammit. Give them all something to remember.
It was only back at the ship, after the week’s tour of the bleak planet’s high and low spots, ranging from a visit to the ISPCA’s camel-shelter, to the Lord Lieutenants Bun-fight, that she realized she might have been overdoing it. It was Caro Leyven who brought it home to her. She was taking off the nail-icons the Princess had worn for the crowded farewell. In this privacy protocol was largely ignored. “Shari, are you… well… in love? You seemed so… alive this last while.”
Shari smiled, trying to ignore the droplet in the corner of her eye. “How could I get any man’s attention for long with you around, my dear?”
Caro Leyven was not intelligent. But she was tenacious and loyal. “You’ve taken at least two men away from my court at the last function alone. You normally keep yourself aloof. Please be careful, my dear Princess,” she said quietly. She gave a small sniff. “You know what that… brother of yours is like.” She turned away, sobbed, “I couldn’t bear it if you were killed.”
“We shall do our best to see that doesn’t happen, M’lady.” The grey-clad Deo had entered the dressing-room so silently that neither of them had heard him. It was hard to find any trace of expression on that poker-face. But there could have been approval.
Later that evening, when the countess had been comforted and had gone off to stalk her usual evening prey, they talked further. “The League must plan to do it on the ship before we go in, or probably just after we come out of, surf, Deo. And it must be with small arms, poison, or knives. Surely, Sirian wouldn’t come along on the ship with us if they were going to kill me by destroying it.” She spoke quietly. Deo had mopped the area. There were no wired or transmitting bugs. Thanks to Station-technology they were some long jumps ahead of those who wished to spy on them.
The factotum permitted himself the smallest of smiles. Shook his head. “We don’t even know who got to the Sirian, or with what. We cannot second-guess the unknown, my Princess. We also know the steward, one of the cooks and one of the engineers are not known League agents anyway. The steward does not know how to serve drinks very well.”
She raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Staff security falls under my dear brother’s Counter-intelligence. Does he connive with the League in this? Surely the League men could hardly get in without Selim Puk being aware? Has Turabi decided to do away with me after all?”
Deo shrugged. “It would not surprise me if Selim should use new men as red herrings. The attempt could just as easily come from your bodyguards. And, after all we are in space. The League controls that. Perhaps even Selim Puk has been out-maneuvered.”
She sighed. “I’m even sleeping in that damned uncomfortable jacket the Stationers made for me. But I’m willing to bet it will be after the next hop.”
Deo nodded. “I will be watching.”
She smiled through her nervousness. Scratched Otto’s ears. “Where would I be without you, Deo?”
It was the Factotum’s turn to smile. Properly now, to the eyes. It changed his face, and she quite understood why the nondescript man never permitted himself to do it in public. “You flatter me unduly, Your Highness. But Otto and I shall do our best. I think we can probably rely on your human fluffy companion too.”
“That surprised me. I didn’t think she had enough brain to understand what was going on.”
The factotum made a wry face. “I was deceived, too. But you create loyalty, my Princess.” He stood up. “Good night, your highness. I will be sleeping across your door.”
She knew that he meant it. Deo had done just that since the day he had come to kill her. He had quietly taken control of the servant body. And even as the head of her servant household he still slept on a thin, plaited grass mattress across her doorway. He preferred the door to be open.
Liton lay on his hard pallet, staring at the ceiling. There was not much else to stare at in his tiny cell. Two more short jumps, and then the big one across the sectors to New Sahara. Shahjah was holding up well, so far. She said the old ones’ barge was easier to manage than the human-built ones. But he would not have been a good rider if he hadn’t worried.
The metal walls of the cell ran up to fit flush against the old hull, where they had been roughly welded on. The original hull-metal was swirled with oil-on-water patterns, which gave his imagination plenty of scope. Shahjah’s memories of the old ones’ barge had been from the outside. He wished she could tell him how the inside had looked. If the finish on the hull-metal was anything to judge by it had probably been far more beautiful than the empire’s rehash had been. There was a click from the locked door-latch. He started. The Wienan couldn’t think Shahjah was ready to fly yet?
Another click. And then a series of three more. The door opened. The dumpy figure of Lady Tanzo stood there, silhouetted by the passage light. She stepped in and swung the heavy door closed behind her. “Hello, rider. They wouldn’t let me talk to you, outside, so I’ve come here.” She moved her mouth slowly and deliberately.
“Go away. They’ll hurt Shahjah!” he said fearfully.
She sat down on his bed. “Your Leaguesman is busy with his servant. The other Leaguesman is with Countess Leyven. They won’t know I’ve been here. Answer my questions then I’ll go away. Her hands wove clumsily in sign language.
His eyes nearly popped out. “You are a League spy!”
She snorted. “Don’t be silly. Spies are young and pretty. Your sign language is a League secret now, all right, but it was public knowledge back in the twentieth century. I just looked it up. I’ve had eleven days to learn and practice. All I want is to know about the Denaari. Then I’ll go away and leave you in peace.”
He pointed at the door. “The Wienans’ say their locks cannot be picked. They tell us this often. Go away.”
A small smile came to her pinched mouth. “So you believe them, because they have told you often enough.” She held up a piece of wire. “I can show you how to do it with this.”
“You are a spy! No one else would know how to do that kind of thing!”
She shook her head. “I’m a historian who has had to support her research with theft.” She stood up again, and walked over to the door and re-locked it with the piece of wire. “It’s easy, see.”
He was unable to resist. “Show me, then I will try and tell you what Shahjah remembers.”
Her eyes narrowed and her head came forward in her characteristic bob, as she focused on his face. “There is no point in your escaping now. You’d just give both of us away.”
He shook his head. “No. I cannot leave Shahjah anyway. But when I get back to the compound I will show the other riders. They have been left to die when the Leaguesmen have abandoned ship before.”
She grimaced. Nodded. “Understandable that you should want to learn. All right. Take the pick. I’ll try to guide your hand. There are just two levers. It is a very simple lock, really.”
Tanzo was an amazingly good and patient teacher. After an hour he could, given ten minutes, do what she could achieve in ten seconds. Finally, they sat down on his bed again. “Now. I checked the orbit-periods. Nekrat 375. 24 days. Phillipia orbit takes 375.19 days. Of the remaining four hundred and thirty there are none between them.
Liton shook his head. “The motherworld is forbidden to the Stardogs.”
She bit her lip. Peered at him. “Why?”
He was silent for a while. Then he spoke slowly. “The old ones forbade it. The sickness…. was carried by the Stardogs.”
“Quarantine! Of course! Probably too late. It always is,” she said, shaking her head. “But that was over three thousand years ago. Why haven’t they gone back?”
He shrugged. “The old ones said not to. They do not disobey”
“That’s a long time to stay loyal. But surely the Denaari plague is over now? Surely they must go back to their old masters?” she wheedled.
He shook his head. “They want to. But they cannot disobey. I don’t understand, but Shahjah can’t choose to disobey.”
She pursed her lips. “Imprinting from when they were made.”
Once more he shook his head. “No! They were not made. But they cannot have pups unless they go back. The Stardogs are all old. They will all start to die soon. My Shahjah is one of the oldest. But they cannot live much longer than four thousand years anyway. They usually only lived about two hundred years. The same as their rider-friends.
She stood up. Sighed. “It’s like that bloody welded shut drive-chamber. Did you know this ship has engines? But they didn’t understand how they worked… so they welded the accesses shut. The League and the Empire don’t want to know. They’re still scared of the Denaari. And they don’t want to admit that they’re nothing more than a bunch of maggots feeding on the corpse of an alien Empire.” She struck her small fist into her palm in frustration. Then pushed her glasses back along her nose. “Well, thank you, rider. You’ve at least told me more than I knew before. I’ll stop by and bring you a spare pick, when I am sure it is safe.” She went out and locked the door quietly behind her.
CHAPTER 8
COLD IRON
There is a crucial timing in all things. Affecting the course of human affairs is very like blacksmithing. To weld iron it must be at the right temperature when it is drawn from the forge. Too hot and it will twist, or even melt. Yet, if you strike iron when it is too cold it will not weld, and can even shatter… The successful revolutionary must manipulate these times, striking when he is ready and forcing enemies to strike when they are not.
Nicola Para-Machiavelli: Obliterating a Prince.
Abelard. Bahrain II. Samburia. Amritsar… the royal journey continued. So did the Princess, conducting her last grand tour in the grand manner. She found herself unable to return to the distances in which she had formerly carefully isolated herself. She drank of life like a backsliding alcoholic at a free wine tasting. And she spoke to her audiences from the heart, with a fierce fire she’d never before allowed to burn in public. When she spoke to the Imperial Legion Meeting on Samburia about the need for real and adequate reward for disabled veterans she found tears streaming down her face. And afterwards the cheering mass of ex-soldiers had carried her on their shoulders to the waiting transport.
It was heady stuff. Heady and dangerous. It made one feel invulnerable. She wasn’t. At Amritsar Station signs of the mass hysteria she was generating were visible. For the first time ever the missile-guard legionnaires had to be deployed to keep back the cheering crowds. About the only stationer who didn’t disobey instructions to come and bid her farewell and watch her departure was Juan Biacasta. He was, none the less much closer to the Princess than most of the cheering stationers. He’d been there for hours, having got to his position ages before the crowds.
Sam Teovan was faced with a bloody choice. Go against his instincts and deal with whatever trap was waiting. Or fail to go through with it and be killed by his waiting associates. He chose the third option. It… felt better. Not good, but better.
