He laughed. “Well, I happen to have studied Earth history, or at least those parts surrounding famous military leaders. Julius Caesar being one.”
“They were shouting that name, last time I was here,” Beka said, as they started behind the crowd toward the Temple of Pompeii.
“That’s because this is a reenactment of Caesar’s assassination on the Ides of March,” Ujio said. “But you can also gain access to other bontemps, most particularly the popular Roman arena. In fact, you can buy, at crushing cost, an aedileship—that is, a period wherein you are the organizer. Or at least, so they advertise.”
Beka snorted. “I think our game organizing will be confined to breaking in, am I correct?”
“You are,” he said, and as the crowd coalesced on the Caesar figure, who was just shouting about Dollabella, Baka watched Ujio pull a fold of his toga over his head. Shrouded thus, he swiftly melded into the crowd of assassins who were just now surging up the steps, knives out. From inside his clothing Ujio produced a long, wicked-looking dagger, and Beka whistled softly.
Then she stood back, appreciating the superlative skills he displayed to ward the wildly stabbing knives. He vanished among the writhing mass of bodies, and then reappeared again, one hand stashing the dagger within his clothing, and the other flicking a chit.
“Now,” he said, working the chit with expert speed.
As he fingered it he plunged up the marble steps to the great hall, and when a door appeared, he motioned Beka through, stepped half in and half out, and then turned and with a flick of his wrist tossed the chit back into the mass of assassins.
“So I take it we just helped ourselves to a sizable chunk of someone’s funds?” Beka asked.
“He can afford it,” Ujio said. Then he turned his head, the long dimples in his lean cheeks framing his challenging smile. “That just gave us a shortcut. Ready?”
She squared herself. “Ready.”
He said, “You take whatever is on the right, I the left. Leave the aedile players for last.”
She nodded as another door opened, and they plunged through into what she realized was a small control booth perched high above a vast oval arena.
And down there were Dylan and Rommie!
No time: right nearby was a big henchman reaching for his weapon.
Ujio used his greater size and strength to take his down in two punishing strikes, then turned in case Beka needed aid. But she didn’t. He watched in appreciation her smooth style, the fast strikes that kept her opponent from unloosing his weapon, and within a few seconds that one too fell to the floor, senseless.
A man and a woman leaped up, both clad in purple togas, both of them shouting.
“Who are you!”
“What is this?”
“How dare you interrupt—”
“We paid for another—”
Ujio spotted a small storage bin, and without ceremony took hold of one, then the other, propelling them in, then shutting the door, and tabbing the lock.
“How long will that last?”
“Until they stop banging and shouting and use their wits—and their chits,” Ujio said. “Now, what none of the directors of this Drift know, but I found out by accident—if investigation is ever accident—is that there’s a particularly corrupt individual named…” Ujio looked down at his chit. “Ah. Torbal. Who rakes in this extra on the side, without anyone knowing. It’s apparently he, and only he, who controls the force field here. These people”—he waved at the closet, where thumping and muffled yells could be heard.—“they don’t actually have access, can’t really give the thumbs-up or thumbs-down, release gladiators, drop the force fields against others. They just think they do, but it’s this Torbal who holds the controls—through these guys.” He pointed at the fallen henchmen. “Search for a control chit.”
They each bent over one man. Beka felt her fingers tremble as she rifled his pockets, and came up with only an ordinary ID chit.
“Here,” Ujio said. “You know, I thought your captain might choose this place, bring the crew, which was why I did my digging, while waiting for your warship to appear. Never thought I’d see that.”
Beka looked out the window; when she saw the blood on Dylan’s clothes—and what was that he was wearing, anyway?—she hoped it was fake. From the way he was warding what looked like children, only children that moved at impossible speed, she was afraid there wasn’t any fakery.
Ujio’s eyes narrowed. “They could use help right about now.” He rammed the special chit into the control console slot.
Lights flickered, then a query appeared.
“Torbal,” Ujio said. “Wants to know why.”
“This is the central control booth for the arena, right?” Beka said, looking at the console, seeing tab clusters for lights, doors, air scrubbing, sound, and myriad other technical necessities. “Is there an override?” Beka asked, spotting the force field cluster at the other end, near Ujio.
Ujio was running his fingers over the tabs, checking labels. “Yes. Emergency override, giving us…roughly thirty seconds. There.”
He punched the tab, then pointed out the window, and Beka saw the faint iridescence that circled the railing of the arena fade around a big door in the wall directly below them.
They slammed out of the booth, leaving behind the shrieking, pounding would-be aediles and the snoozing guards, and hustled down the stairs between rows of roaring, shrieking spectators…fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…
There was the big wall, just ahead…ten, nine, eight, seven—
And they were through.
“Time to detoga,” Ujio said, and ripped the cloth free.
Beka followed suit; the nanobots made the fabric vanish in midair, and they started at a run for the others in the middle of the arena floor. Beka felt something warm pressed into her hand, and discovered Ujio had just handed her some kind of palm weapon.
He had something else in his hand—when they arrived, and the Seraphim turned as one to focus on them, he shot out a monofilament from his weapon, which arced fast around the nearest cluster of Seraphim, tightening with a snap!
They fell.
Dylan gave Beka a smile, sent a curious look Ujio’s way, but said only, “Back to back.”
The crowd shrieked as the Seraphim used what appeared to be their nails to break the monofilament, and then converged, striking fast and hard. All four exerted every effort to block, and ward—they were totally on the defensive, but at least they hadn’t gone down.
“Found it,” Rommie said suddenly.
Dylan turned his head, ducking a humming stick, and whirling his force lance up in a block. “What?”
“Weak link,” Rommie said. “I—”
She blanked for a moment, slowing. Dylan winced. The third time now. He stepped in front of her, and saw Beka frown in Rommie’s direction and then alter her position, guarding Rommie’s back as she used some sort of nerve tickler on any Seraph that came within reach.
The nerve ticklers would have dropped a human, but they only slowed the Seraphim, who backed up and then came on again, fast and savage.
Rommie blinked, said, “Alphyra doesn’t want them autonomous. No trust. Torbal has the control over their supposed telepathy—”
“Can you break it?” Dylan asked.
Rommie did not answer.
He realized she’d blanked again, this time standing still, hands at her sides.
“Guard!” he shouted, and the tall newcomer who looked unsettlingly like a Nietzschean released the seam in his coat sleeves and flexed his bone blades, whirling to the attack on two Seraphim as Beka fought sturdily at Rommie’s one side, and Dylan, despite aching ribs and a numbing shoulder, fought at the other.
Pimiko took her time on approach, sweeping round and over the tremendous curves of the Andromeda Ascendant. Except for a couple of blasted derelicts floating as trash in what was once Vedran space, this was the closest she’d ever been to one of the Commonwealth’s Glorious Heritage-cl
ass warships. Though she already knew its capabilities, the ship itself impressed her. As she passed round smoothed weapons nacelles, glinting blue and gold in the light reflected from the planet below, she suspected her father would appreciate this marriage of war and beauty.
At last she reached the open hangar, and expertly piloted her vessel in, setting it down gently. The doors slid closed behind her, and presently her console registered green: pressure and air on the outside.
Silvery bots appeared out of a side door, and began the sweep for hidden weapons. She let the ramp down, strolling past the busy bots. Tyr Anasazi was not waiting for her; more bots were. Interesting. Of course she could shoot them down, but what then? She’d also read about the formidable Als these ships were equipped with, and though there was no sign of any observer, she knew she was observed.
To the lift, and up tens of decks: apparently five hangar decks alone. And then out into a corridor, clean, sweetly curved, smooth, richly gleaming copper walls and carved moldings.
No one in sight.
Bots hissed silently at either side, until they reached the door to, ah, the Command Deck. She was really on the Command Deck of a High Guard battle cruiser.
And there, across from her, stood Tyr Anasazi: tall, taller than she remembered, vast shoulders, arms like steel cable. She grinned. “The last time we saw each other, we got into an argument about the Alpha Odysseus.”
Tyr did not move. “I still maintain that is a weak genotype in the already weak Drago-Kazov line.” His teeth showed. “Ask the ones I’ve met since those days what they feel about Kodiak. That is, if you can communicate with the dead.”
She laughed, feeling the hot, sweet pain of attraction. Tyr had been a big, obnoxious boy during those long-ago days when the Jaguar Pride tried to form an alliance with several Prides in order to curtail the Drago-Kazov ambitions. That was before every Kodiak was killed, except this Tyr, who was no longer a boy.
She trailed a hand along the captain’s console. “Where are your Oracle attack drones? If I go exploring, will your famous AI pop up and zap me?”
Tyr did not move. “Make the attempt. See for yourself.”
She paused just before him, and studied him in silence. He stared back, impassive. “Not very welcoming, are you?” she asked, shaking back her hair.
“You invited yourself here,” he replied. “Seems to me, according to our own rules, it’s up to you to entertain me.”
She stretched out a hand and just touched the edge of his vest, which he wore with no shirt underneath. His skin was smooth, brown, the curves over his muscles reminiscent in a strange way of the smooth curves of weapons nacelles on the outside of the warship.
Attraction sparked through her again.
“I can try,” she said, and closed the distance between them.
She was just lifting her head to claim his lips, thinking that the surrender had been easy after all, when an iron grip closed round her wrist and held her, right like that, an inch away.
Tyr stared down into her face, saw the flush, the bright eyes of seduction, the full, pouting lips now parted in surprise. Just beginning to downturn with the anger of denial. He felt the urge to laugh, but did not give in to it. Nor did he speak.
She looked up, uncertain for the very first time. Then smiled, her assurance back. “I want Kodiak joined with Odin-Thor. What sons and daughters we would make!”
He shrugged. “Your wishes have little to do with my own genetic plans,” he said.
She flushed with anger.
He went on, “In case I am not clear, I am not at all convinced I want Odin-Thor genes mixing with Kodiak.”
“One Kodiak,” she retorted. “One left. Many would see that as weakness.”
“Many,” he said, “would be fools.”
“That is not a Nietzschean thought,” she taunted, still studying him. Her eyes were large, dark, reflecting the lights from overhead. “Sounds more like an excuse.”
“If you were to read your own history, you would discover—in both Norse and Japanese mythology—the observation that to the earthquake, the palace of the emperor is the same as the hovel of the peasant.”
She tried to free her wrist, but his fingers were locked. Immovable. She was held there, so close she could hear his breathing, so close the front of her carefully chosen clothing—a flight suit reminiscent of Japanese design—nearly brushed the flesh in his open vest.
She frowned, made the effort to shift her intense awareness of his physical proximity to his words. “Earthquake being, what, a metaphor for treachery?”
“If you think treachery is another word for strength, consider its effects,” he said. “No one harnesses quakes, and how much energy is required to rebuild?”
She snorted a laugh. “The last time we met, when we were all young, the adults could only decide on one thing: trust was another name for weakness.”
Tyr smiled. “And so you are here, why exactly? Am I supposed to weaken at the offer of your fair self?”
She wrenched her hand, and he let her go, quite suddenly, so she nearly stumbled. But she was in far too supple shape for a fall. She twisted, whirled, faced him. “I want you—and I want this ship,” she said. “Trust could come. But what we could do in the meantime is have fun—and start our own Pride. With this ship no one, anywhere, could stop us.”
As soon as she said it, she remembered the infamous AI.
But nothing happened.
She frowned. “You do have control of this ship.”
He laughed softly. “If Minamoto thinks someone else has been fighting him, I’d be interested in his theories.”
Pimiko nodded. “So Dylan Hunt, derelict High Guard captain, really is a prisoner on the Drift?”
“You tell me,” he said.
She frowned. “You aren’t going to give me anything, are you.”
“So far, I see no reason to,” he said, soft, remote, his gaze steady.
“Then why am I here?”
“You invited yourself,” he said again. “Entertain me.”
She gasped. “You’re wasting time! You’re spinning out this worthless conversation, just to kill time!”
“Oh, it was quite enlightening. And, in its own way, entertaining,” he said, smiling. And the door opened, without his making a move.
There was no sign of any AI on the return trip to the dock, which, Pimiko would have sworn, went by a different route.
She climbed into her ship, slammed the hatch down, fired up the engines, and was spinning the ship around just as the doors opened. She accelerated through the hatch, then started violently as actinic light flared around her ship. Her comscreen flared and blanked out; the engines hesitated, then resumed their snarling hiss. She cursed viciously; he’d pulsed her! Pimiko salved her pride with the thought that it must have been the AI that had judged the EMP induced from her hull so finely that she still had engine power; she gritted her teeth at the thought of being dragged ignominiously into the Bushido’s landing bay on the end of a sticky-tether. But there was no help for it. She accelerated away from the Andromeda, trying to locate the Bushido with the help of the primitive transceiver the pulse had left functional.
Pimiko had found her father’s ship and was orienting herself on it when a tight formation of bright stars flared into the angular forms of the Bushi fighters.
She cursed again as one slashed past her ship so close that her defense system, still addled by the pulse, fired off an uncoordinated burst of fire, like a fireworks display, and just as useless.
She hesitated, staring at her blank vidscreens, wanting to turn the ship around so she could see how that treacherous worm Minamoto was faring against the Andromeda. But even the edge of a battle against a capital ship was no place for a tiny, crippled fighter, and Pimiko accelerated towards the bright star of the Bushido, grimly determined to phage the video of her disgrace, and wishing she could as easily expunge her father’s memory of it.
“Forward docking bay opening,”
reported the scan tech, surprise in his voice.
Minamoto sat up, frowning. Pimiko had entered an aft bay; why was she debarking from a different one. And how? The Bushido had no such capability; transfers between bays were external. His hand curled tighter around the grip of his katana, which lay across his lap. What did that mean? Had she failed? If not, was she returning with the bones of the Ancestor? His face flushed with anger, and he secured the katana back in its locker, not taking his eyes off the Andromeda and his sister’s tiny ship emerging from the vast bay under the bow of the ship.
So he saw clearly the pulse of light from her ship, and the subtle alteration in her ship’s course that indicated a hiccup in the engines. Behind her, the docking bay hatch gaped open, and, yes, it had stopped closing! She’d pulsed the Andromeda, giving him the opening he needed. Clumsily, to be sure—she’d obviously misjudged the field strength and briefly destabilized her engines.
His weapons tech looked up. “What are your orders, Minamoto-san?”
“Stand by,” Minamoto said, freighting his words with impatience. He keyed his com impatiently to their private channel.
“Pimiko, do you have them?”
When she didn’t reply, he queried her again, then keyed the com off viciously. Stupid kludge! She’d flatlined her com, too. Did she have the bones or not? Then he realized it made no difference: if she did, he would have to capture the Andromeda to outweigh her triumph, if she didn’t, he dared not destroy the bones. But with the docking bay stuck open, the Andromeda’s defenses were seriously weakened, exactly where he needed them to be.
Minamoto laughed, and gave the orders to recommence attack.
THIRTY-ONE
War should be the only study of a prince.
—NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI,
FROM THE MUSEVENI COLLECTED PROVERBS
Tyr laughed in savage delight as the Bushi arrowed towards the open docking bay.
“Deploying fusion seeds, ramscoop ready, sparkplug accumulators at ninety-eight percent charge,” said Rommie. On the screen bright points of light sped away from the ship, interposing themselves between the open bay and the onrushing fighters. Lances of flame snapped out from the attackers as their antimissile weapons opened up.