Conquerors' Legacy

5

Lying fully alert on his mattress pad, half seeing, half imagining the protective shelter cloth draped above his head, Lord Stewart Cavanagh stared out into the blackness of the Granparra night, wondering what it was that had awakened him.

His watch, pen torch, knife, and Kolchin's backup flechette pistol were on the ground beside his head to his left. Carefully, he rolled onto his left side, wincing at the ache from a dozen sore muscles.

"Lord Cavanagh?" a quiet voice called from a few meters away.

"Yes," Cavanagh confirmed, snagging the pistol and easing onto his back again. "Sorry—did I wake you?"

"No, I've been awake for a few minutes," Mitri Kolchin said. "I think we've got an intruder."

Cavanagh shivered, the muscle movement sending another wave of aching through him. "I thought you killed everything nearby when we made camp."

"I thought so, too," Kolchin said. "Quiet, please, and let me listen."

Cavanagh grimaced, gripping the pistol tightly as he rested his hand on his chest, breathing as silently as he could. In the darkness he visualized the area around the encampment Kolchin had cleared for them the previous evening, trying to guess where the intruder could be coming from.

And then... "Kolchin?"

"Sir, you have to be quiet—"

"It's over here," Cavanagh told him. "It's moving along my left leg."

He never heard Kolchin get out of his sleeping roll, but suddenly, with a ripple of displaced air, the bodyguard was there beside him. "Hold still," Kolchin murmured. "Watch your eyes."

Abruptly, the shelter was ablaze with light from Kolchin's pen torch. Cavanagh squinted against the glare, his eyes fighting to adjust, and looked down toward the left side of his sleeping roll.

It was there, all right: a slender, segmented greenish-purple vine moving leisurely alongside his leg. Cavanagh didn't recognize the particular species, but like the rest of Granparra's recoil creepers, its tip and sides bristled with barbed thorns. Even as he watched, it moved again, poking mindlessly at the sleeping roll as it tried to get to the source of the heat it was sensing.

"Don't move," Kolchin said quietly. "I'll try to draw it away."

There was a soft hum, and the beam from the pen torch focused down until it was a small, intense spot on the bristling vine head. The creeper seemed to pause, almost as if thinking; and then, as Cavanagh held his breath, the head began to turn toward this new source of heat. "I'll give it a few more centimeters," Kolchin said. "We don't want it twitching back toward you."

Cavanagh gave a microscopic nod, afraid of startling the plant. With what seemed like agonizing slowness the creeper continued veering away from his side....

And then Kolchin's right hand slashed down, the two edges of his split-blade knife slicing vertically into either side of the creeper, pinning the vine head to the ground. The creeper twitched violently and was still writhing as Kolchin slid Cavanagh's knife from its sheath and sliced off the deadly vine head.

Cavanagh took a careful breath, the pistol sagging against his chest as his hand relaxed its rigid grip on the weapon. "It's helpless now, right?"

"Right," Kolchin confirmed. He was working his way down the creeper, methodically cutting through the vine at each of the segment lines and throwing the pieces out into the forest. "Just don't touch the vine head—those thorns are probably poisonous."

"Right," Cavanagh said, reaching gingerly past the still writhing vine head for his watch. Still two hours to dawn. "When did Piltariab say he'd be getting back from Puerto Simone Island?"

"Sometime this morning," Kolchin said, coming back from his search-and-kill defoliation exercise and returning Cavanagh's knife to its sheath. Squatting down, he carefully pulled his own knife out of the ground, the twitching vine head still impaled on the split blade. With a quick flick of his wrist he flipped the knife around, sending the vine head spinning out into the darkness of the forest. "He wouldn't commit himself more precisely than that."

"In my experience it's a minor triumph to get an Avuire to commit to even a given day," Cavanagh said, easing himself up on one elbow and peering ahead into the darkness. A couple of kilometers away out there was Sereno Strait, the narrow stretch of water that separated them here on the Granparra mainland from the safety of Puerto Simone Island. Ninety-nine-plus percent of the planet's forty million people lived on the island, dwelling in the literal shadow of the huge Parra vine but protected by their isolation from the rest of the planet's deadly plant life.

Cavanagh and Kolchin, unfortunately, were out here.

None of this had been part of the original plan, of course. Breaking away from Petr Bronski on Mra-mig, they had borrowed a small fighter ship from the Mrach weapons dump in the hills outside Mig-Ka City—the only craft there that could be prepped for flight in under half an hour—and had headed off-planet. The idea was to leave Mrach space as quickly as possible and get back to Cavanagh's homeworld of Avon, where he could set to work on something that could help the Commonwealth defeat the invading Conquerors.

But the universe hadn't proved cooperative. Like courier ships, fighter stardrives were twice as fast as those of larger ships, but they paid for that speed with five times the fuel consumption, and if there was a way to retune the drive for the slower, more efficient drive speed, neither of them had been able to find it. Courier ships had large fuel tanks to compensate. Fighters, unfortunately, didn't.

Which had left them with an extremely limited number of places they could reach without refueling, none of them places where humans flying a fighter with official Mrach markings wouldn't be greeted with raised eyebrows and suspicious questions. With Bronski undoubtedly burning up space behind them, suspicious questions were something to be avoided at all costs.

Which had in turn boiled down their options to exactly one.

Klyveress ci Yyatoor, Twelfth Counsel to the Yycroman Hierarch, had been surprised to see them again so soon. Her welcome had turned noticeably cooler when she'd learned they were on the run. But with a little persistence Cavanagh had managed to work out a deal, and a few hours later they were off again in an old Pawolian mining ship Klyveress had had stashed away somewhere.

With its slower drive the Pawolian ship had more than enough fuel to reach Avon. Unfortunately, what it turned out not to have was a reliable set of reactant infusers.

They'd been able to nurse the ship only as far as Granparra. But as Kolchin had pointed out, as emergency stopovers went, Granparra was a reasonably good one. With virtually the entire planetary population crowded together on Puerto Simone Island, there was no reason for anyone to keep close tabs on space traffic going in or out of the rest of the planet. On the other hand, with a few thousand rough-and-tumble sap miners and prospectors working the mainland at any given time, there were also enough small ships going in and out for one more not to attract particular notice. Kolchin had taken full advantage of that, bringing the ship in toward a mining complex well away from the island—and away from the Myrmidon Weapons Platform that orbited protectively overhead—then flying low over the forests and jungles to a spot only a few hours' hike away from the coastline.

Their problems, according to Kolchin, had thus been reduced to two: how to locate new reactant infusers, and how to raise the money to pay for it without triggering the credit red flags Bronski had undoubtedly set up on the Cavanagh accounts.

Problem three, Cavanagh had privately added, was how to stay alive while they dealt with problems one and two.

"Your bag looks undamaged," Kolchin said, running his fingers along the material. "No thorns embedded or anything."

"Good," Cavanagh said, studying the young man's dirty and unshaven face. Kolchin was being very professional about this, certainly: inquiring closely after his employer's health, sympathizing with him over foot blisters and sore muscles and venom burns, sharing in his fears about the continual danger there. But beneath it all, despite it all, it was obvious that the young bodyguard was enjoying this adventure immensely.

And Cavanagh could hardly blame him. Kolchin had been trained as a Peacekeeper commando—trained with the best and brightest warriors the Commonwealth had to offer. The job of personal bodyguard hardly ever even scratched the surface of his abilities. Now, for probably the first time since Cavanagh had hired him, Kolchin was getting the chance to actually use his combat, stalking, and survival skills.

Cavanagh could only hope that that wasn't the real reason Kolchin had brought them down in the wilds of Granparra in the first place.

"Good," Kolchin said, checking his watch and then peering up at the sky. "You might as well get a little more sleep. It'll be another couple of hours before we can get moving."

"I know," Cavanagh said, rubbing his knuckles into tired eyes, his hands tickling against two weeks' worth of beard growth as he did so. He desperately wanted to sleep, certainly; this little field trip through the Granparra outback was as physically and mentally exhausting as anything he'd tackled since his own stint in the Peacekeepers thirty-six years ago. "I think I'll do a little work first. I still haven't got the ablative part of the scheme balanced properly, and I want to be ready to hit the ground running when we get back to Avon."

"If you want to," Kolchin said, glancing out into the darkness around them. "There'll probably be several hours after we get to the dock before Piltariab shows up."

"If there are, I can work then, too," Cavanagh growled. "And probably also all of next week, after we find out we still don't have enough money to buy the infusers. Maybe we'll wind up spending the whole war here—then I'd have lots of time to work."

Kolchin's eyes narrowed, just slightly. "I only meant—"

"I know what you meant, Kolchin," Cavanagh sighed, waving a hand in tired apology as fatigue overtook the brief flash of anger. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired."

"Yes, sir," Kolchin said, his voice studiously neutral. Perhaps he was finally getting tired too.

More likely, he was wondering whether his boss was beginning to lose it. Cavanagh wouldn't blame him on that one, either. After all, the whole reason they'd run from Mra-mig in the first place was to avoid the quarantine Bronski had planned for them, a quarantine designed to protect the startling and potentially devastating secret that the legendary deterrent weapon CIRCE didn't exist.

Cavanagh had argued vehemently against any such quarantine. With his daughter and two sons still in deadly danger from the Conquerors, he had no desire to let anyone lock him uselessly away where he couldn't do anything to help them. But Bronski had refused his plea, at which point Kolchin had ended the discussion with a drawn flechette pistol and a quiet promise to use it if necessary.

And so, of course, they'd wound up here on the Granparra mainland. As effectively cut off from civilization as they would have been in any quarantine Bronski could have devised.

"I understand your concerns, sir," Kolchin said. "But this last sale should have us pretty close to what we need. And if Piltariab was able to get your message to Bokamba—and if he's willing to lend us the difference—we could conceivably get out of here tonight."

"Perhaps," Cavanagh murmured. Bokamba was Reserve Peacekeeper Wing Commander Iniko Bokamba, Adam Quinn's former commander in the Copperheads. The one potentially bright spot in all this, and a lingering source of annoyance for Cavanagh that he hadn't thought of contacting the man sooner.

Bokamba had been one of the handful of former Copperhead officers Quinn had considered contacting when the family had first decided on a private mission to try to find and rescue Pheylan from the Conquerors. Cavanagh didn't know whether Quinn and Aric had in fact gone to Bokamba or had instead gone to someone else—he and Kolchin had headed off to Mra-mig before that part of Quinn's plan was settled. But it was a possible opening; and with his children in danger, it was an opening Cavanagh was willing to take a chance on.

If he indeed still had any children. If Pheylan was, in fact, still alive out there. If Aric and Quinn hadn't been killed looking for him. If Aric and Pheylan's sister, Melinda, trapped on Dorcas by the Conqueror invasion of that world, hadn't also been killed.

Cavanagh laid his head back down on the mattress pad. No—he wouldn't think that way. Couldn't think that way. Wherever they were right now, Aric, Melinda, and Pheylan were alive and well. They had to be.

"Well," Kolchin said, breaking into the silence. "With your permission, sir, I'm going to take another look around the area. After that I'll see about breakfast."

"All right," Cavanagh nodded. "Thank you."

"No trouble," Kolchin assured him. "Don't hesitate to shout if there are any problems." Drawing his flechette pistol and checking the action, he turned and disappeared into the night.

With a tired sigh Cavanagh balanced his pen torch across his chest and dug his plate out of his pouch. Keying to the proper section, he began to read through his notes.

Kolchin's voice jolted Cavanagh from a light doze. "Here he comes."

Cavanagh sat up, blinking against the late-morning sunlight, and looked out across the rolling waters of Sereno Strait. In the far distance, low to the water, he could see the dark landmass of Puerto Simone Island; between him and the island were perhaps twenty boats, ranging from an impressively large passenger cruiser down to three- and four-man fishing boats. One of the latter was heading directly toward them. "You've spotted him?" he asked Kolchin.

"Yes," Kolchin confirmed, binoculars pressed to his face. "He came up from belowdecks for a minute—looked like he was giving the crew last-minute docking instructions. Three others in the crew, all Avuirli."

Cavanagh looked out at the approaching boat, shading his eyes with one hand. "I hope Bokamba didn't make a major deal about the message, one way or the other. You know how excited Avuirli get about anything that even sniffs of intrigue."

"Actually, that's what made him a better choice than the other miners who were heading back that day," Kolchin said, still studying the boat. "If he even suspects there's more to this than a couple of fellow sap miners looking up an old friend, we'll know it from two meters away. Farther if we're downwind."

"Except that everyone else will know it, too."

"Only if they're paying attention," Kolchin said. "Most people I've met don't take Avuirli very seriously." He handed Cavanagh the binoculars. "I'd better get down to the dock. I'll signal when it's safe for you to join us."

Keeping low, Kolchin headed off through the shoreline bushes, winding his way down toward the little cove below. He was waiting on the dock when the boat arrived, catching the line one of the crew threw to him and helping tie it up. Piltariab appeared on deck and hopped down to the dock, gesticulating toward Kolchin with typical Avuirlian expansiveness.

For a few minutes the two of them talked as the crew hauled six backpacks ashore and laid them neatly out on the dock beside Piltariab. Then, with a brief exchange of words and gestures between all the Avuirli, the crew cast off the lines and turned their boat back out into the strait.

Kolchin waved good-bye; and as he did so, his left hand curved briefly into the "all-clear" signal. Shutting off the binoculars and packing them back into their case, Cavanagh headed down, keeping behind the bushes and groaning silently at freshly reawakened muscle aches.

Kolchin was talking as he came around the last group of bushes. "—fell a little behind on the way here. Ah; here he is."

"Greetings, Moo Sab Piltariab," Cavanagh said, gesticulating an Avuirlian salutation and casually sniffing the air. Piltariab's aroma seemed the same as he remembered it from their last meeting. A good sign. "How was your trip to the island?"

"Very good indeed, Moo Sab Stymer," Piltariab said, returning the gesture, his fragrance going a little more rose petal as he did so. "I was just saying to Moo Sab Plex how wonderfully rich and varied the aromas of the island are."

"They certainly are," Cavanagh agreed. "Were you able—?"

"Of course, you Humans are so poorly equipped to appreciate it," Piltariab went on as if Cavanagh hadn't spoken. "Your cooking alone shows that. Though I must say that sometimes your heavy-handed approach to food seasoning can be quite invigorating."

"I've often thought that myself," Cavanagh said. "Were you able to locate Moo Sab Bokamba?"

"Of course," Piltariab said. "His home is listed in the directory—I merely went there and there he was." He gestured in dreamy memory. "Now, there is a man who understands aromas. His house has some of the most unusual—"

"Ow!" Kolchin snarled under his breath, slapping at the side of his neck. "Do you suppose we could continue this conversation farther inland? These damn sea mites always seem to find me."

"Certainly, Moo Sab Plex," Piltariab said, his nostrils flaring momentarily. "Though personally I don't see what they smell in you. That backpack on the end is yours."

"Our thanks," Kolchin said, picking it up and settling it on his back. "You get everything we asked for?"

"Such little as you asked for," Piltariab sniffed. "Even the Meert-ha in our group asks for more luxuries than you two."

"We're humans of simple taste," Kolchin said. "What about the rest of the money?"

"All there, too," Piltariab assured him, picking up one of the remaining backpacks and looping its carrying straps over his neck, papoose style. "Four hundred twenty-seven poumaries. You did specify NorCoord currency, did you not?"

"Yes, thank you," Cavanagh said. Four hundred twenty-seven poumaries: the fruit of six days of painstakingly harvesting exotic sap from Granparra's hostile plant life. "We appreciate your handling that business for us."

"No difficulty," the Avuire said, picking up the other four packs and arranging them, two per arm, on his wide shoulders. "You have already paid equitably with your assistance to our mining group. You particularly, Moo Sab Plex, with your skill in hunting."

"We thank you," Kolchin said. "You said you'd delivered our message to Moo Sab Bokamba?"

"I did not say so," Piltariab said cheerfully as they left the dock and headed back up the gentle slope toward the forest. "I merely said I had found him. You will be returning to the group with me, will you not?"

"My mistake," Kolchin said. "You met Moo Sab Bokamba. Did you deliver our message?"

"Yes indeed," Piltariab said.

"And was there a reply?"

"Yes indeed," the Avuire said. "It is in your pack. You said you will be returning to the group with me?"

"I did not say so," Kolchin countered, playing the standard Avuirlian word game right back at him. "Actually, I think we're going to move on."

"Ah," Piltariab said, his odor turning lilac and pepper in an aromotional response Cavanagh tentatively decided was resignation or regret. "We will miss your fresh game, Moo Sab Plex. Where now do you mine?"

"A little ways south of here," Kolchin told him. "We found a nice stand of comaran bushes with a nest of paprra vines growing in the middle." He cocked an eyebrow. "We're having a little trouble finding the ripest ones, though. I don't suppose you'd be willing to leave your group for a day or two—come lend us your expertise and Avuirlian nose? For a share of the sap, of course."

Piltariab rumbled deep in his throat sac, his odor shading into something faintly musky. Cavanagh knew that one from long conference-table experience: the aroma of an Avuire thinking. "I would like to, Moo Sab Plex," he said. "But I don't think I should. My group also needs my nose. They will already be waiting for me at the Dungyness River Landing."

Kolchin shrugged. "Well, if you can't, you can't."

"Perhaps in the future it will come to pass," Piltariab said, his five packs bouncing as he shrugged his shoulders. "Though in true honesty, you would do better to rejoin us. You would find more marketable sap along the Dungyness River than in any sixty-four stands of comaran bushes."

"You may be right," Kolchin conceded.

"Yes indeed," Piltariab said, flaring his nostrils. "Avuirlian noses do not deceive, whether they are seeking out ripe sap or confirming that edibles and spices are fresh and tasteworthy." He bounced the packs on his shoulders again for emphasis.

"Of course," Kolchin said. "Perhaps we'll catch up with you in a few days."

"Do so," Piltariab urged, his odor changing again. "Without a good hunter in the group we will have to make more trips to the island to purchase food, and that will create ill temper."

"I imagine so," Kolchin said. "Farewell, Moo Sab Piltariab."

"Farewell, Moo Sab Plex. Farewell, Moo Sab Stymer."

The Avuire turned and headed north through the forest, pulling a large machete from its waist sheath and holding it ready for trouble. "You really wanted him along with us?" Cavanagh asked quietly as they watched him leave.

"No," Kolchin said, taking Cavanagh's arm and leading the way off to their left. "I was mostly curious to see what his response would be to the offer. I'm not sure, but I think someone may have been watching us from one of the other boats."

Cavanagh's stomach tightened painfully. "Bronski's people?"

"Could be," Kolchin said. "I couldn't really see anyone. It was just a feeling I had."

Cavanagh nodded grimly. Petr Bronski. On official government file lists, a lowly assistant liaison with the Commonwealth diplomatic corps. On more private lists a senior officer with NorCoord Military Intelligence. "That's why you got us off the dock."

"Common sense alone would dictate that," Kolchin said. "Here we are."

Here turned out to be a small tree-topped knoll overlooking the strait and the dock area. "Let me have the binoculars," Kolchin said as he dropped into a crouch. "Keep out of sight."

Cavanagh handed over the binocular case and sat down, easing the backpack off his shoulders as Kolchin went the rest of the way up the knoll on elbows and knees. Sliding his hand under the seal flap, he opened it up.

The card from Bokamba was right on top. Pulling out his plate, Cavanagh inserted the card and, steeling himself, began to read.

And as he did so, some of the weight abruptly lifted from his shoulders.

"They're heading away," Kolchin said, crawling back down the knoll. "I was probably just imagining things." He nodded at the plate. "Good news?"

"Wonderful news," Cavanagh said, handing it to him. "Bokamba says the rescue mission has come back. Pheylan, Aric, and Quinn are all alive and well."

"That's great," Kolchin said, sitting down beside Cavanagh and taking the plate. "Congratulations, sir."

"Thank you," Cavanagh said, leaning back against the knoll and staring up through the trees at the sky. It had worked—the terrible gamble had actually worked.

"Says they're all on Edo," Kolchin said, still reading. "Probably facing court-martial."

"They'll never make it stick," Cavanagh said, shaking his head. "You can't court-martial heroes."

"Tell that to Quinn," Kolchin said dryly. "I see we have a name for the aliens now—we're supposed to call them the Zhirrzh." He paused. "No news here about Melinda."

Cavanagh nodded. "I noticed that too."

"Well, she's in the middle of a war zone," Kolchin pointed out, handing the plate back to Cavanagh and starting to poke through the open pack. "Even Bokamba can't just phone up Peacekeeper Command and ask for a private briefing."

"All the more reason to get off Granparra as soon as we can," Cavanagh said, paging the message down. "He's included an equipment price list... looks like we've got enough money for an infuser. Let's see if he has equally good news about... damn."

"What?" Kolchin asked, looking up.

" 'Don't attempt to come onto the island yet,' " Cavanagh read aloud. " 'There are Peacekeepers all over, collecting equipment for the war effort. I've checked their schedule, and they'll be gone in two days.' "

"That means we should stay out here for three," Kolchin said. "There are always last-minute problems that straggle these things out."

Cavanagh hissed between his teeth. Three more days. Three more days of the dangerous annoyances of the Granparra forest. Three more days of trying not to think of Melinda in the far deadlier danger of a Conqueror war zone.

But if it had to be, then it had to be. All this waiting would be for nothing if they made it to the island only to trip over a Peacekeeper squad on the lookout for them. "All right," he sighed, keying the message off and closing the plate. "Three days. But no more."

"Fine," Kolchin said briskly, standing up and brushing bits of leaves off his clothing. "And in the meantime we might as well earn a few more poumaries. You might be interested in buying an actual restaurant meal once we get to the island."

"Good point," Cavanagh agreed, the taste of the previous evening's roast grooma coming back as he struggled to his feet.

"Besides," Kolchin said, the smile fading, "I think we should go a little deeper into the forest."