Текст книги "Decision at Thunder Rift"

Автор книги: Уильям Кейт

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6

 

The city of Sarghad was laid out on the edge of the desert as concentric wheels with unevenly spaced spokes that stretched beyond the city into the encircling ocher sands. Northward, the mountains of the Crysanden Range thrust jagged ice-capped peaks against the reddish sky. The mists hung low now above Thunder Rift, while on the plain to the south, the spaceport shimmered in the growing heat Every hour, the swollen red sun crept higher above the horizon, and the dry winds from the south turned hot. The Castle crouched on Mount Gayal's western flanks, brooding above the city and its port.

It was growing hotter, though the sun would not be overhead for another 150 hours. The searing passage of Periasteron occurred at midday of Thirday, and the time of rising heat was accompanied by the boom of temporary glaciers shattering within the Rift's narrow caverns and crevasses. To the north, distant volcanos smudged the sky as Trellwan began to feel the twisting of the sun's tidal grasp.

Most of Sarghad's streets were partially covered over by massive slabs of ferrocrete or stone, heavily reinforced by arches and buttresses against seismic tremors, and strung with lights that let business continue even through the long planetary night. The planet's sun was a red dwarf so weak in ultraviolet that humans could stare directly at it without danger or discomfort, even thought its disk was over three times larger than that of Earth's sun as seen from Earth. The parent star's single danger lay in its rare but periodic flares, when patches on its mottled red surface turned white hot and scorched the surface of Trellwan with light, heat, and storms of high-energy atomic particles.

At those times, ready shade close at hand was a necessity. The design of Sarghad had originally called for it to be roofed over by a massive ferrocrete dome that would protect its inhabitants from flare radiation, and seal out the incessant sand and climatic extremes. But those plans had been drawn in a century without war, when technology promised miracles. There were places along Sarghad's rim where eggshell fragments of a partially-begun dome still rose above the sands, other places where sections of the dome had collapsed across acres of buildings now deserted or crumbling away into slums. For the most part, the people relied for shade on the protective sunscreens stretched across the city's narrow avenues and walkways.

Sarghad's usual crowds were out among the marketplace stalls that lined the Street of Merchants from the crumbling ferrocrete ruin of the Ajiani highway all the way to the fence that hedged in the palace grounds at the hub of the city. To Grayson, it seemed that the crowds were quieter than usual, less boisterious. An atmosphere of fear had crept through the streets, reflected in the voices and faces of the people there. Merchants and pedestrians clustered together in the blue-ink pools of shadow under the street shades, or hurried through the red glare of daylight.

Two more IS-hour periods had passed since he'd awakened and learned of the exodus of the remnants of Carlyle's Commandos. Though his head was still bandaged, the throbbing pain and dizziness were gone, and Grayson's strength had returned enough that he'd decided to leave the house of Berenir the Merchant.

"Where will you go?" Claydon had asked when Grayson announced his intention.

"I'm not entirely sure. I have one friend in the city... the daughter of the Chief Minister. She may be able to help me, or take me to someone who can."

Berenir had frowned, stroking his stubby white beard. "It's the political ministers who've been stirring up this hate-the-offworlders sentiment lately. I wonder if it's wise for you to visit the household of one of the planet's leading politicians."

Grayson shrugged. "It's not as though I have much choice. I can't stay here."

Berenir nodded. "I won't say I'm sorry to see you go. It is dangerous for you to stay."

"You didn't have to bring me in." Perhaps it would have better had they not. Growing desperation and loss knotted Grayson's stomach.

"Don't misunderstand me, young Lord." He still used the honorific most Trells reserved for representatives of far-off Tharkad, and the near-legendary inner worlds of the Commonwealth. "I don't blame you, personally, but..."

"But there are the neighbors to consider."

"Eh, yes. As you say."

"I'm grateful for your help."

"And I'm grateful for what your people brought to Trellwan." He smiled at Grayson's startled expression. "No, I don't mean Hendrik. But technology... science to combat superstition... education. My son, Claydon, learned much in his years working at the Castle."

"A lot of good it does me now, Father. The Commonwealth will never return."

"It did you good in the way it taught you to think, son. There are always multiple ways of looking at a problem, some good, some bad. You have learned to apply scientific method to your thought, to think critically, rationally. That is the treasure that these... these starmen brought with them. They will not take it away with them again."

He turned again to Grayson. "It is we who are grateful to you, young Lord."

Grayson had remained silent Scientific method held out little hope to a people faced with raids by bandit BattleMechs. Technology and rational thought had a nasty way of vanishing in the funeral pyres of cities.

Berenir had long been an enigma to those of Carlyle's Commandos who had followed events in Sarghad. He was one of the rich city merchants who dealt with the infrequent traders who called at the spaceport, handling their cargoes and dickering with them for shipments of Trellwan's mineral woods and spices. In the wave of anti-Commonwealth rioting and propagandizing, he had kept a low profile, but continued to deal with the men from the stars, selling Carlyle's Commandos food, oil for their machines, and commodities as varied as soap and salt. None could tell whether his attitude was one of greed, practicality, or simply a cosmopolitan acceptance of the starmen as people like everyone else.

If the population learned the whereabouts of the son of the man who had engineered the Trellwan Pact with Hendrik, Grayson might well find himself facing the brunt of their simmering resentment. The Trells were not particularly vindictive or bloody-minded, but they were human. Grayson shuddered, remembering the story he'd heard of a rapist set free in the desert just as Trell began to flare.

His first thought had been to use Berenir to contact the next offworld freighter that called at Trellwan. The merchant explained that offworld traders called but rarely this far out along the Periphery, and that he was fearful of what would happen when the next one arrived. As he rubbed his hands together the overhead lights caught at the jeweled rings on his fingers. "Business has taken a turn for the worst, I suspect."

"But a ship will come?"

"Oh, yes, eventually. But it will be a while. The trader ships do not fill the skies as they once did...”

“But they'll come?”

“Oh, certainly they'll come!"

"Will your government let them come? With this policy of hate the offworlder..."

Berenir made an impatient gesture. "If there's one thing I've learned in three hundred threedays on the Streets of Merchants, it's that business will turn again. How long do you think Trellwan will get along without the traders from the stars, eh?"

"I don't know. You have water here... you grow your own food... you could do without them." What Grayson didn't say was that, by his standards, Trellwan's level of civilization was scarcely removed from barbarism. They had no electronics technology to speak off. Power was drawn from tidal generators powered by burning petroleum distillates. Why, transportation in the streets was as likely to be by harnessed desert laniks as it was to be self-powered.

Berenir made an impatient gesture. "The government doesn't care about food and water. It's tariffs, import duties, and taxes they're concerned about. Give the politicians oh... ten... maybe 20 threedays, and the ships will come again."

Berenir rubbed his chin ruefully. "But in the meantime, we're going to have a bit of trouble figuring out what to do with you."

Listening to all this, Grayson had suppressed a groan. Ten Trell threedays was something like two and a half standard years. In the past six months, the only commercial DropShips to set down on Trellwan had been from the Mailai trader that had been handling the runs between Oberon and Trellwan. How much longer would it be before another called? And how could he reach it, with Hendrik's bandits at the port, and the people of Sarghad ready to kill him on sight?

Berenir looked thoughtful. "I have contacts in the government," he said. "A merchant in my position has to, nowadays. The Chief Minister is a friend of mine..."

"Stannic? Chief Minister Stannic?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"I... know his daughter. Quite well. I've met the Minister a time or two..."

"Stannic is one of King Jeverid's most trusted aides. He's also the man to know for trade licensing, that sort of thing."

"Will he help?"

Berenir pulled at his lower lip. "He has always approved of Jeverid's policies of strengthening ties with the Commonwealth. Lately, it's been Stannic and Jeverid against the rest of their government, and their desertion by the Castle garrison – no offense, young Lord – their desertion has left the government up against something of a wall. I... trust him as much as I trust any of that pack of animals. You say you know his daughter?"

Grayson nodded.

"Well, I'll see what I can do."

A meeting had been arranged at Mara's apartment to avoid attracting atttention to the merchant. Berenir's son gave Grayson clothes to replace his grey Commonwealth 'Mech uniform, a plain, light brown tunic, loose-fitting pants, and halfboots that were at least a size too small. Though it was getting well on towards Periasteron and the heat was rising rapidly, he also wore a cloak and hood that covered his light hair. There had been some discussion about whether or not to dye his hair to match the glossy black of most native Trells, but Grayson had decided against it in the end. He would see Mara as himself.

The people along the Third Street of the Merchants seemed totally absorbed in their own comings and goings and ignored Grayson. The merchant stalls were lightweight, easily assembled affairs of wood and canvas. Each crowded into the street in competition with its neighbors, turning the walk along the arrow-straight avenue into a zigzag around milling shoppers, piles of produce, stacks of woven cloth, and the merchants themselves vying with one another in a cacophony of bleated pleas for attention. But Grayson noticed that even the street merchants seemed to have lost something of their enthusiasm.

Sarghad was gripped by fear, waiting for Hendrik's bandits to turn their attention to the city.

Little was known about the bandit forces that now occupied the spaceport, and less was known about their intent. Berenir had said that no demands or threats had been made by the invaders, and that City Council representatives sent to the port had been turned away by sentries at the defensive perimeter that had been erected there. Hendrik's men had driven off the Commonwealth garrison Lance, thrown up the perimeter, and now were simply waiting.

For what?

The hub of the wheel of Sarghad embraced the Palace grounds, with the clustered domes of the Palace itself half hidden from public view by the lush, flowering vegetation of the irrigated gardens. The household of Minister Stannic was quartered in a line of luxurious three-story row houses that fronted the Royal Circle just across from the Palace entrance.

He'd been told Mara would be home. He knew she worked for her father, serving as Stannic's social secretary since her mother's death. Berenir had promised that she would be waiting, that she and Stannic would arrange for a place for Grayson to stay out of the public eye.

He was looking forward to seeing her again, despite his having already gone through a lingering set of last goodbyes with her. She was not as shy – or as protected – as most girls on a world that made a practice of sheltering its women by denying them much freedom. Stannic and his family had lived offworld for a number of years, according to Mara, and were not so set in Trellwan's social conservatism as their neighbors.

He was just mounting the steps in front of her apartment when a voice caught him from behind. "Stop, you."

Grayson stopped, and turned slowly. He found himself facing a young man in the dress uniform of Jeverid's Palace Guard, green jacket and trousers richly chased and edged with gold, and a white helmet polished to a dull shine ringed by a transparent blast shield. He held a functional-looking automatic rifle in white-gloved hands.

"Identify yourself," the soldier said. Beyond the man's shoulder were two more green-and-gold uniforms.

"Ah... Grayson, my name's Grayson." Trells did not use patronymics, and he dared not use his. "I'm here to see Mara. She knows me... she's expecting me..."

The rifle muzzle did not waver from its position centimeters from Grayson's sternum. "But I don’t." The guard squinted at Grayson's face under the heavy cowl. "Take that thing off."

He did so, reluctantly. The guard's eys widened at the sight of Grayson's fair hair. "So," he said, tightening his finger on the trigger. "Looks like we've captured ourselves one of those bandits!"

7

 

"Nonsense!" Grayson drew himself erect. "I am Grayson Carlyle, of the Commonwealth garrison Lance, and I'm here to see Minister Stannic... at once!"

The direct approach failed him. The rifle barrel jabbed forward, prodding Grayson in the chest and knocking him backward, off balance.

"You're not seeing anybody but the Guard Commander, offworlder. The interrogators will want to discuss some things with you, I'm thinking..."

Grayson had heard of Jeverid's interrogators. The methods of the Sarghad's police force were a frequent topic of speculation in the garrison barracks. The fear that had been growing in Grayson ever since he'd awakened at Berenir's house exploded. He turned and ran, panic driving him back into the street and along the Royal Circle. Even after colliding with several Trell citizens walking under the overhanging eaves, he kept running. Behind him, Grayson heard a shouted "Halt!" and the terrifying crack of a single rifle shot. The round must have been aimed into the air, though, as the street was too crowded for indiscriminate firing. He didn't think the guards would risk killing civilians just to get him. But he ran harder nonetheless, his back muscles bunched hard as though anticipating a rifle bullet.

Looking about wildly, he saw few options, with the Palace Gardens fence hemming him in to the right and the buildings crowded wall by wall along the Circle to the left People were ducking out of his way as he ran now, which would give his pursuers a clear shot at any moment.

Could he get to the Palace? The gate was close by, and he could see the alabaster curve of the main Palace dome above the trees beyond the Gardens. And if he reached it, what else could he expect except to be arrested or shot? Besides, he saw the flash of gold and green on the black-surfaced drive behind the gate. The Palace Guard was there, too, at least a company of their grim-faced, white-helmeted ranks.

A ragged thuttering sounded behind him, and bits of brickwork disintegrated in clouds of stinging dust and flakes of stone close by his head. A woman screamed, and people on the walkways scattered for cover. He collided with a young man in ragged street clothes, nearly knocking them both to the ground, and then he was past and running wildly down the street.

"Halt!" Halt or we fire!"

They were closer! Which way? He twisted between a pair of businessmen in richly dyed formal cloaks and tunics, leapt across the legs of an old man sitting on a crate beside the alley entrance, and plunged into the shadows of a narrow alley between two buildings to his left. Behind him, Grayson heard piping whistles and the clatter and shouts of running men.

As he ran, he saw a two-meter-high fence directly in his path. Putting on even more speed, he launched himself from an overturned produce crate, throwing his arms and one knee across the top of the fence. It creaked and swayed as he pulled the other leg across, but he landed like a cat and continued racing toward the next street.

Down this street... turn... down another... turn again. Could he lose them running blindly this way? He had come to a narrow, cross lane that curved between two of the major avenues leading out from the hub of the Palace Gardens. It was an ill-kept area. The sunshade had collapsed in places, filling the street with flat chunks of jagged-edged ferrocrete. The rest of it was layered with wind-swirled mounds of sand, empty bottles, and garbage steaming in the sun.

There were people here, too, dozens of them stooped in the shade pools of surrounding buildings, or sprawled with their legs in the street. They wore rags and layers of caked mud and dust. Many were barefoot Some appeared asleep or unconscious amid the litter of empty bottles of alcohol, but the rest watched Grayson with wary, shuttered eyes.

Forcing himself to slow to a walk, he made his way along the debris-choked road. Somehow he had to find a place to hide or at least a place where he could blend in with the background. Glancing continuously over his shoulder as he went, Grayson's heart froze, then began to hammer at his throat when something behind him moved. He relaxed then, thinking at first it was just another derelict. But no, it was the man he'd collided with on the street in front of the Palace Grounds. Had the man been following him? It could well be that any citizen who turned him in to the Guard would be rewarded, which certainly would be a temptation for any of this ragged lot. Grayson quickened his step. He didn't KNOW that he was being followed, but...

Moving down the littered street, he was so startled to feel the squish of mud against his boots that he stopped where he was for a moment. All along the street there were places where secondnight ice had melted off roofs, flowed down rusted gutterspouts, and pooled in curbside depressions worn hollow over the years. In most spots, the surface water was sucked away by the thirsty sand, but here the meltwater was trapped in pools of black mud, where it would remain until the next freeze. The sight of it gave him an idea.

Removing his cloak as he walked, Grayson dropped it beside a half-naked derelict leaning against a worn stone wall. There was no time to hide it. The soldiers were mere seconds behind him. Then he went to work unraveling his head bandage, which he crumpled and stuffed into an already overflowing garbage bin. A bit farther ahead, there was a stretch of road unoccupied by street people or anyone else. Kneeling by a mud pool, Grayson gathered a double handful of the stinking stuff, and lathered it over his head. It burned like fire when it touched the inflamed wound on the side of his head. He knew he was begging for an infection, but the thought of the Interrogators drove him on.

By the time he was done, Grayson's yellow hair, his face, and his tunic were generously coated with black mud. What else? he thought, mind racing. His clothes were nondescript enough, except for his boots, so tight his feet were aching now. They were much too shiny and new to belong to a mud-smeared derelict

After a moment's thought, Grayson pried off the boots and carefully set them together nearby, then muddied his feet as well. The final touch would be two empty liquor bottles he found in a mound of garbage across the street. Grayson then lay down with his feet sprawled well into the middle of the street, his head close by the noisome pool, with a bottle cradled in each arm. It was only seconds later that he heard the scuffing of booted feet rounding the curve of the street.

There were five of them, Palace Guards in dark green and gold, four with wicked-looking assault rifles held at port arms. They picked their way cautiously along the street, stepping around or past the worst of the mud and garbage.

"Here!" one of them shouted. "His boots!" The soldier swooped down and grabbed the shiny boots. Grayson opened his eyes in his best imitation of bleary-eyed dullness, and saw that one of the soldiers already had tucked his cast-off cloak and the bloodied strips of bandage under one arm. Another one – probably the leader, judging by his imperious hands-on-hips stance and lack of a rifle – stood over Grayson and nudged him with the toe of his boot. "You!"

Grayson clutched the bottles tighter, and gave the man a wit-befuddled smile. If he could convince the soldiers that he was a street drunk, that someone else had dropped the boots beside him as he lay there in the mud...

"You," the soldier said again. His upper lip curled even as he spoke, as though the man were trying to avoid breathing the stench of the noxious mud and garbage. "Where'd these boots come from?"

"Wha-a?" Grayson slurred his speech and turned his grin idiotic.

"Sergeant!" Here was a new voice. Grayson followed its sound and saw another squad of soldiers coming up the street from the other direction. They must have sent this second patrol ahead to another main street so that they could work back, hoping to trap him between. The newcomer was an officer, his Guard's Lieutenant uniform more gold than green, looped with aiguillettes and tassels that glittered in the red sunlight. "Any sign of him?"

"He came this way, sir. Look."

The two examined the cloak, bandages, and boots for a moment, their own boots only a meter from Grayson's bare, muddy feet. The lead officer shook his head. "He didn't get past us. You must have missed him."

"He might be trying to blend in with the street scum, sir,' the sergeant said. At this, the bottles trembled in Grayson's hands and his heart pounded so furiously he was certain it would give him away. "We could round them up and question them all."

"Pah! Or shoot them."

"I might be able to help you, Lieutenant." That new voice sent chills along Grayson's spine. Rags moved down the street, and a filthy and unshaven man lurched into view. It was the young man he'd thought was following him. He must have been close enough behind Grayson to see him preparing his hasty disguise!

Grayson tensed, readying himself. If he jumped up and ran, the soldiers would cut him down before he made it around the curve of the road, unless he could take them by surprise. He wondered how fast his bare and tender feet could move over broken chunks of sun baked ferrocrete.

"You see this guy?" the Lieutenant asked, holding up the boots.

"Sure did." The street dweller glanced at Grayson, his face neutral. "See that pipe?" he said, gesturing at the drainpipe above Grayson's mud pool. "Fella came tearing in here maybe a minute ago. Stripped off his boots, plopped 'em down there, and shinnied up that pipe like a leaflighter in heat." He pointed across the flat slab roofs back in the general direction of the palace. "He headed off across the roofs off that-a-way."

"Damn," the Lieutenant muttered. "He's trying to backtrack on us. You men! At the double! C'mon!"

The troop gathered into ragged ranks and clumped off down the street at a half-run. The one holding. Grayson's boots tossed them aside. When the soldiers were far enough away, he sat up slowly, dusting ineffectually at the mud caked on his tunic. "Thanks."

The man glanced up and down the street, then his dirty face with its scraggly growth of beard broke into a wide, unexpected grin. "Don't mention it. You looked like you were new in town."

"Well, you might say that. Who are you?"

The man gave a sweeping, polished bow. "Renfred Tor, at your service."

"I think it should be the other way around. I'm indebted to you, sir."

"Why were they after you?"

Grayson hesitated. His first inclination urged caution. The stranger seemed friendly enough, but maybe he was just looking for more information about the fugitive before turning him in. Picking his way across the street to retrieve his boots, Grayson turned various possibilities over in his mind. If he was going to have to do any more running, he would need those painfully tight boots.

Suddenly Grayson realized that the man had used two names. He could not possibly be a native of Trellwan! "You're an offworlder," he said, avoiding the other's question.

"You might say that." Tor's eyes shifted down the street "Offworlders don't seem very popular around here."

Grayson nodded and smiled ruefully. "I'm Grayson Carlyle. I was with the Commonwealth garrison Lance at the Castle."

"Pleased to meet you. Uh... you seem to have misplaced your 'Mech Lance."

"They misplaced me. The bandits attacked the Castle and I was left for dead. When I came to, my unit had already pulled out"

"Ah," said Tor.

"How about you? What are you doing here?"

Tor stared at Grayson a long moment, then told him, "I'm the DropShip pilot who brought those bandits here in the first place."