"The other one?"
"No problem. It didn't socialize. It just wanted to look at the worlds we visited."
"Hunh. Commander Haget. Where did they come from? The methane breather has a commercially arranged temporary courier's credentials. The other has a Treaty World diplomatic pass."
"Gemina didn't know the methane breather, sir, and only that there's a Closed Treaty arrangement with the homeworld of the other, the one the Travelers know as Seeker of the Lost Children."
"Sounds like a job description."
Third WatchMaster shrugged. "The methane breather calls itself Messenger. Seeker's home is the Closed Treaty System M. Meddinia, which is in the Sixth Presidency, near the Atlantean Rim. It's a fixture on the commercial runs in the Sixth and Second Presidencies. It's been traveling without a destination for several hundred years. Like the Chief says, it's unsociable. But it pays well to be carried around and left alone."
WarAvocat nodded. "Thin. What about the other one?"
"A colonial intelligence previously unknown in Canon space. Even ships that trade Outside didn't know it. It boarded at A. Chancelorii 3B on open itinerary."
WarAvocat nodded. "Chief Timmerbach. Aren't the Manesa Systems, S.L. Manesica and B.L. Manesia, in the same Presidency as A. Chancelorii and M. Meddinia?"
"They're neighbors, sir. All part of the same cluster. The Web there is a tangle, there are so many interconnections between anchor points."
"And though it didn't cross paths with you till V. Rothica, the krekelen began its odyssey on the Cholot world S.L. Manesica 7. Interesting."
The Chief just shrugged.
WarAvocat leaned back, steepled his fingers. "The Deified say the chance of a connection between at least two of the aliens is close to unity."
Third WatchMaster had begun to relax. He had done a good job. No blame on him if he could not find data that did not exist. Might even be a good mark when advancement reviews came up....The way WarAvocat looked at him aborted his confidence.
Strate was going to shaft him.
WarAvocat's thin lips stretched in what he thought was a comradely smile. "It won't be as bad as you think. You could end up elected to WarCrew without loss of grade."
What the hell? "Sir?"
"I thought you'd see it. The Deified want to go after this one. VII Gemina is headed for V. Rothica. While we're charging around looking for the krekelen's masters, I want you and a team with Glorious Spent."
"Me and a team? Sir?"
The soldier got it first. "Shee-it!" she muttered.
"I'm going to put you aboard the Cholot Traveler. The Sergeant will go along. You'll stay out of sight. Legwork will be handled by people we'll borrow from P. Jaksonica 3B STASIS on a TAD contract. Otten, I want three good ops, preferably volunteers."
Often's thoughts left specters on his face.
WarAvocat continued, "The krekelen will be reprogrammed, set into Cholot shape, and put back aboard Glorious Spent."
Magnahs, Otten, and Timmerbach sputtered. Klass swore softly. Timmerbach found his voice first. "Sir! You can't do this!"
"We can and will, Chief. You'll be paid for your trouble. Might even be a lifting of the Ban on some Cholot systems. Can you cry about that?"
Timmerbach could but kept his mouth shut.
WarAvocat said, "Consider the circumstantial evidence. The krekelen started from a Cholot world and ended up on one, made the last leg from a Merod world disguised as a Cholot, carrying Cholot documentation, aboard a Cholot Traveler, accompanied by a member of the Cholot Directorate. Suppose you were dealing with IX Furia?"
Timmerbach blanched.
IX Furia's style was to shoot first and forget about questions. Or, some said, to shoot first and then shoot the survivors.
WarAvocat said, "Thank you for coming. Commander Haget, you and the Sergeant get your kits together. You'll find sealed orders at departure bay. I'll talk to the Station Master, Director, and Chief while you're getting ready."
Those three did not look delighted.
Third WatchMaster shambled toward the exit, deflated. He wished he could extinguish himself in drink or drugs. The soldier said something he did not catch. He grunted, trudged toward his quarters. There were people who would kill for this opportunity. But they had to send him.
It felt more like punishment than reward.
— 12 —
The wind licked and pranced through the ruins, muttering and chuckling. Superstitious DownTowners thought the ruins haunted. The wind carried voices that said something if you listened closely.
It carried dust and leaves, too. The dust kept getting behind Turtle's nictating membranes. "I'd forgotten what it was like out here," he told a squat Immune called Lonesome Mike. "Midnight can't come outside alone."
Lonesome Mike grunted. He was no conversationalist. He had not become Immune because of brainpower.
Turtle stared across the barrens at Merod Schene. "Looks like a dream city from here. Can't see DownTown at all."
It was the sort of view that ended up in tourist lures, Merod Schene glittering against the tapestry of a creeping orange sky, the High City wavering like seaweed amongst hurrying chubby clouds.
"How long we got to stay in that hole, Turtle?"
They had moved into the headquarters bunker of an archeological dig abandoned when an attitude shift among the House Merod Directors had cut off funds. It was comfortable but primitive. Lonesome Mike objected because he felt isolated from the action.
"Till we find out if Lord Askenasry can get out the garrison. Maybe only a few days. If he fails, we wait it out."
Turtle figured at least three months before the Guardship came. The Immunes had laid in supplies for six. No point worrying the future beyond that. What would be would be decided by then.
The day began fading. UpTown grew sparkly. Then its lights were overwhelmed by the fairy fires of the High City. Turtle stared a while, motionless as the old block on which he sat. Then he went below for supper and the day's rancorous exchange with an emissary from the Concord.
Those fools flat refused to take no for an answer. As long as the Immunes rejected Concord, half the population of DownTown did. Turtle expected overt threats soon.
That was the night Amber Soul sent the messenger scurrying, heart ready to burst with terror.
Three nights in succession the Concord fools threw the darkest denizens of DownTown at the ruins. Three nights in succession Amber Soul sent them flying.
"As if murdering us will sell the justice of their cause," Turtle said. "Just it may be, but it's doomed. They never see that. They never think. And they never learn."
It was the fourth night. Shouts rolled down from the watchers. "Here we go again," Turtle grumped. "This time we send them home carrying their heads under their arms."
Amber Soul touched him. It is not that. Lord Askenasry failed.
"Damn!" Turtle raced to the surface.
The violence of the explosions was sufficient to send muted thunders tramping fifteen kilometers to the ruins. The elfin towers of the High City listed thirty degrees.
"They didn't have sense enough to sheer the mooring cables."
"Or couldn't."
"It's going to drop on UpTown."
The disaster was a long time coming, but come it did, the High City settling onto UpTown, UpTown's supports collapsing. Turtle imagined screams running with the thunder. "I'm going to pack."
"What for?"
"We have to go do what we can for the survivors."
"Not tonight." That was Lonesome Mike. "Tonight they're going to be evening scores."
True. Hell would be in session over there. It had to run its course.
All day a carrion bird of smoke perched on the bones of Merod Schene. With night's fall fires reddened the bird's belly. Turtle stared while the Immunes gathered for the long hike. Midnight complained softly, to no one but herself.