A Wizard In Bedlam
Christopher Stasheff
ISBN: 0-812-53647-9
CHAPTER 1
Engines bellowed, and the stubby cargo boat wallowed up out of the blastpit. It hesitated for a moment, feeling for balance, then shot up into the sky, roaring like an angry aurochs.
It cleared atmosphere and slewed into orbit, chasing the great globe of the mother ship down the ellipse.
In the control blister, the pilot slapped his board to automatic and looked up at Domigny. “Secure for coasting, Captain—reeling down the umbilicus. About half an hour till we head back into the womb.”
Domigny winced. “I’ve heard of extended metaphors, Lieutenant, but you stretched that one so far that it snapped back.”
“Really, sir?” The navigator looked up in feigned surprise. “I was about to compliment him on his knack for colorful language.” He was black-haired and lean, with a look of wiry strength to him—almost the pilot’s double. Not as close as twins, closer than brothers—but they weren’t related. Not technically, anyway.
“That is a polite way of saying it,” Domigny agreed, “though I could wish he didn’t take the term ‘mother ship’ quite so literally.” He loosened his shock webbing, stood up, and stretched. “Well, to business. Call the Seed of Insurrection, will you?”
The pilot winced as he thumbed the key. “I thought we were done with that metaphor… Lieutenant Dulain to control, please.”
The captain grinned wickedly and flexed an arm, kneading his pineapple biceps with the other hand. He was broad in the shoulder and beefy everywhere else, lard-faced and grizzle-haired, with eyes that seemed a little too small but saw much.
The navigator frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure that was apt, Captain; the insurrection in Mélange scarcely needs seeding. From what Lords Port and Core were saying, I’d guess it’s about ready to blossom.”
The captain glanced up in irritation. “I was under the naïve impression that conference was private, Charts.”
“No, sir.” The pilot grinned. “At least, not when you ordered Dirk to listen in on the conference-room bug. Certainly you couldn’t expect me to resist a temptation like that.”
“I’d expect you to resist many things, Lieutenant, but temptation isn’t one of them,” the captain groused, settling himself back into his couch. The hatch opened, and a young man in waistcoat, knee pants, white hose, and buckled shoes climbed in. He looked enough like the pilot and navigator to make a man wonder about their mothers. But such a man would wrong those virtuous women—the fault was in their ancestors.
Captain Domigny raised an eyebrow in the newcomer’s direction. “You heard, Dirk?”
Dirk made an elaborate bow. “Your wish is my command, O Captain.”
Domigny turned to the pilot. “Turn on the blower, will you, Lieutenant? It’s getting a little thick in here.”
“Not as thick as it was in there.” Dirk straightened, massaging his knuckles. “Little out of line, wasn’t it? For Lord Core to be there with Lord Port?”
“Ah, you noticed!” Domigny said brightly. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm there? … But it looks a little strange, no? I mean, Lord Core has moved up in the world since I was an overworked brat on his estate—Lord Privy Councillor to His Majesty, and all that—but, personally interviewing a freighter captain? Now, really!”
“Perceptive, perceptive.” Domigny nodded over steepled fingertips. “Well, you’re supposed to be the dirtside operative—what do you make of it?”
Dirk sat down and leaned forward, hands clasped on his knees. “Offhand, I’d say things are getting tense. I know our spies said there was rebellion in the air—but they didn’t say it was the air around the throne.”
“Well, it might not be.” Domigny shifted in his chair. “Anything having to do with the throne—who knows? Nobody’s seen His Majesty since his coronation.”
“Yeah, and as I remember, he looked pretty scared then, poor kid.” Dirk scratched behind his ear. “But then, who wouldn’t be, with Core as his regent? … Either way, rumor speaks loudly enough for Core to hear, so here he is, to make very, very sure we don’t help out, if anything does flare up.”
“Not bad.” Domigny nodded. “A little superficial, perhaps, but still, not bad. Now—what does this mean, in terms of your assignment?”
“They’ll be watching us like hawks,” Dirk said immediately. “Each Lord will keep his radar screen manned, for a change. When you drop me in the gig, alarms’ll scream for a hundred miles around.”
“Well, not a hundred miles,” Domigny said judiciously. “Ten would be more like it. But it is to our advantage the Lords allow only one spaceport. That’s where they’ll be watching with basilisk eyes—so, if we drop you a hundred miles away, there’s still a chance you might get by unnoticed.”
Dirk shook his head. “This is where the action’s going to be—in the capital, near the King. It’d take me too long to leg it in a hundred miles. Don’t worry—I can lose any search party they send out.”
The captain sighed and shook his head. “Your choice, I’m afraid. Personally, I’d opt for a hundred miles away.”
“I doubt it,” Dirk said dryly.
The captain glared at him; but he couldn’t hold it, and his face broke into a grin. “Well, maybe you’re right. Lord knows I wish it was my assignment—but age does have certain disadvantages… What did you think of the ‘no tourists’ policy?”
“Pretty insistent, weren’t they?” Dirk smiled grimly. “No more ‘accidental’ reconnaissance flights—isn’t that what he said? And that line about knowing your crew must get curious about a planet they trade with so much, but never get to set foot on… Think he suspects something?”
Domigny shrugged. “You know him better than I do. What would he suspect?”
“Anything,” Dirk said promptly. “Up to and including our landing secret agents to foment rebellion.”
“But there’ve been ‘accidental’ gig flights as long as we’ve been trading with them—nearly five hundred years.” Domigny watched Dirk keenly. “Wouldn’t that lull his suspicions?”
Dirk shook his head. “His predecessors, maybe. Not his. This time, if he spots the gig coming in, he’ll call you and cancel the franchise.”
Domigny smiled sourly. “Not effective immediately. It’ll take them a little time to line up a new freight company. They want their nice little ‘best of all possible worlds’ to stay safe from outside influence, so they deal with only one company, us—but now their safety snaps back at them, and the bars they put up to keep everybody else out will be keeping them in. Besides”—he spread his hands—“what do we care? Let them cancel us. Will that make us go away?” He jabbed a finger toward the viewscreen, filled with a huge golden sphere. “We’ll be sitting right there, behind the near moon in the radar shadow, waiting for your call—and when you send it, we’ll break out every boat and drop down on them like a nest of mad hornets.”
“What if it’s another flash in the pan?” Dirk said softly. “DeCade didn’t succeed five centuries ago. What if the rebellion fails?”
“It won’t,” Domigny said grimly. “We’ve waited five hundred years for this. The Wizard escaped off-planet under cover of the chaos DeCade created, starved and scrimped till he could start a freight line, took a huge loss underbidding the first company so he could get the franchise, and died happy only because he knew he’d set us on the path to this day.”
Dirk listened closely, knowing the words by heart, letting them sink in to stoke the fire of his purpose into flame.
“Ten generations of us have escaped from our masters to these ships,” Domigny went on. “Escaped off-planet, crammed knowledge into our heads till they ached, and worked our backs raw to keep this line running, trading with the planet of our birth so we could sneak in information, arms—waiting for The Day.”