Tor had seen that merchant before. It had been long ago, on Drovahchein II, in the Erit star cluster. He'd known him as Proctor Sinvalie, of House Mailai.
"Yes, we do know one another, you and I," the merchant said, smiling. He stepped forward, and Tor swung the machine pistol to cover him. They'd ordered all their captives to drop their sidearms on the deck when they'd entered, but that merchant's cloak and tunic could hide an arsenal.
"That's far enough. Keep your hands where I can see them!"
The merchant's hands appeared below his deep, loosely-draped cuffs, spread-fingered and empty. He smiled easily, but his eyes were diamond hard. "Easy there, friend. Surely we can come to an amicable agreement, can we not? We have so much to discuss..."
"We've got nothing!" Tor was confused, and not a little frightened. The merchant had a self-assured air about him, a deadly cunning evident in his smile, his mannerisms, and the cold, hard light behind his eyes. "How the bloody hell did YOU get here?"
"I arrived with Duke Ricol, of course. His mission here is, shall we say, of great interest to my masters. As was yours."
"You arranged it so Ricol could take my ship! You arranged it with Hendrik's people!"
"Actually, I arranged things with a faction plotting against old Hendrik, people who, will find political advantage in the destruction of the Trellwan Pact They had the data on your jump series, of course. I introduced them to Ricol's man, Singh. It was necessary to have some of Hendrik's warriors involved to make this little charade... more convincing. We couldn't be sure some of them wouldn't be captured."
Sinvalie turned to the Combine commander. "This is Renford Tor, Captain — a business partner of mine. He was Captain of this vessel.
"I AM the Captain of this ship, and you damn well better believe it!" Tor gestured again with the gun. "You will obey my commands, starting now."
"Of course, of course. Don't get excited, friend. Ah, may I produce some identification?"
The MP-20 hovered within centimeters of the merchant's nose. "Slowly. Very, very slowly."
The man's smile deepened, and he reached inside the folds of his thickly draped outer tunic, then brought forth a square of translucent plastic. Tor found himself looking down through layers of color to symbols that floated unsupported within the square's depths.
"ISF, Captain," the man said. "My name... my REAL name, is Captain Yorunabi. Perhaps you've heard of us? We are the investigative arm of the Draconis Combine."
Tor felt totally out of his depth. The ISF was well known, with an evil reputation that extended far beyond the Combine's borders. "I know you, yeah. Kurita's secret police."
"As you wish. I can tell you, Captain, that I am on a highly important mission, that I must get to Luthien as quickly as possible."
"That is NOT where we're going," Tor snapped.
"Captain, please. I understand you are upset over the requisitioning of your vessel. Frankly, you have shown considerable resourcefulness in taking it back." Yorunabi flourished the card. "I think you will grant that I am... shall we say... in a position to reward you well? Take myself and my companions to your starship, and from there, guide us to Luthien. Think, Captain. This one commission could pay you and your crew enough for you to retire in comfort! Such an oportunity does not enter a man's life twice..."
All Tor's life, it seemed, had been a struggle for one more cargo to earn just enough money to pay his expenses or to bribe the next customs agent. The payment this ISF man was offering him for a single passage would make Tor wealthy. His men, he saw, were looking at one another rather than at their prisoners. The offer was tempting. What chance, after all, did the rebels have? Or Grayson Carlyle?
Tor remembered his interrogation, the biting cold as Singh battered him with questions. He remembered Grady, Moran, and Lathe, and his own bitter guilt at having left them behind, the pain at learning they'd been killed. What chance? What chance? The machine pistol wavered, its muzzle dropped toward the deck...
. . . then whipped upward in a grey blur, smashing Torunabi's cheek with a red-smeared slash that tore a scream from the fat man's throat.
With the toe of his boot, Tor nudged Yorunabi, who lay rolling and moaning on the deck. Then he gestured to his men. "Take these characters below... number one hold. Strap them in and watch 'em." He brought the MP-20 around to cover the pilot and deck officers. "You go, too. I'll take us up."
His men cleared the Combine men from the bridge, and Tor proceeded to check out the ship. There already were prisoners below — Trell soldiers who were being taken elsewhere for their technical expertise,. Among them was General Varney. Vamey and his Militiamen had agreed to join Tor's crew readily enough, once the plan was explained to them.
Then Tor was able to sit down again at the familiar console, letting his hands run across the instruments. Everything was set and ready, the hydrogen tanks topped off, the fusion pile hot and running. A computer display showed that the DropShip was scheduled for launch at dawn, a little more than three standard hours from now.
They'd not come aboard a moment too soon. He pulled out his hand transceiver and clicked it on to another little-used frequency. "Ready... ready... ready," he said.
Then Tor sat back to wait.
28
As Grayson entered the Vehicle Bay, the insistent clamor of the Castle's general alarm began its raucous shrilling. Men and women broke into trotting runs this way and that, NCOs and warrants bellowed orders, and a squad of black-uniformed Combine infantry began forming up on the ground outside the hugh double doors. His first thought of seizing a hovercraft in the Bay and making off with it into the near darkness outside wasn't going to work. He'd be burned down before he got 50 meters.
They'd be rounding up the Trells next. Grayson looked down at his green dress uniform and grimaced. The only thing to do was to stop being a Trell. He made his way back into the Castle's heart, moving through familiar passageways in the general direction of the Repair Bay. What he needed was to find... ha!
A solitary Draconis soldier was hurrying toward him down the hallway, his laser rifle slung behind his shoulder. The man paid no attention to the Trell Green Coat who stood aside with proper deference to let him past, but seemed bent on hurrying up the passageway toward the Vehicle Bay. Grayson's foot swept out and caught the soldier across the shins as he trotted past, and the man went down in a clatter of rifle and cumbersome backpack power unit.
The soldier came to his knees with a snarled, "You clumsy bastard..."
Then Grayson's foot caught him just below the point of his chin, his head snapped back, and he clattered to the floor once more, his anger scattered into darkness. Grayson felt for a pulse, but found none. He hadn't intended to kill the man, but his own fear and anger had charged that kick to the man's throat. The soldier's neck appeared to be broken.
He dragged the soldier into an adjoining room, a small storage area for office forms and clerical supplies. Working swiftly, he stripped off the man's uniform and replaced it with his own, struggling to shrug the heavy power pack onto his shoulders and get the straps adjusted securely. As a final touch, he crouched beside a metal shelving case stacked with ream upon ream of requisition and supply forms and tipped it over across the soldier's body on the floor. There was a ringing crash, then a silence broken by the rustle of skittering papers. That should at least cause a bit of confusion if the trooper's body was found. Any delay at all would win him a few precious, extra minutes.
Next he checked his laser. It was a Marx XX Starbeam, a Combine model he knew from weapons texts but not by personal experience. Still, it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out. Beam intensity would be controlled there. Power on by pulling down the handle on the backpack. A grip safety under his hand. It looked as though he could work it. Checking both directions before he stepped out of the storeroom, Grayson then moved at a trot toward the Repair Bay.