The Reign of the Brown Magician

Chapter Twenty

Ambrose Curran stepped back involuntarily and threw up an arm to shield his eyes as the ragged man vanished behind a blazing, surging cloud of scarlet energy. White and red light flashed across the forest, interspersed with sharp-edged stripes of black shadow where the trees blocked the furious brilliance.

“Yes, my lord,” Curran said, “but I assure you, the terms are not onerous in the least. As His Imperial Majesty’s representative, I promise you we seek only the friendship natural between two great and puissant lords and their respective realms.”

According to accepted protocol that was a proper way to phrase it, but Curran had some doubts as to whether this Brown would like it. From his speech and appearance the man seemed to be rather a rough and ready sort, not a traditional aristocrat at all-and that was hardly surprising, since he was, after all, a usurper.

“I don’t want your fucking emperor’s friendship,” said the roaring voice from the glowing cloud. “I want my wife and child!”

“Of course,” Curran said, just managing to keep his voice steady. He wished he knew whether this obscenity was an indication of the Brown Magician’s fury, or simply a lower-class usurper’s natural style. “And we intend to deliver them, just as soon as we have your assurance that you will cease your interference in Imperial affairs.”

“I don’t give a shit about Imperial affairs!” the voice screamed, and Curran heard branches crack and fall. The cloud was showing several colors now, changing too fast for Curran to name them all. “I want Nancy and Rachel, I want them lowered down a rope from that fucking hole in the sky you’ve got up there, and I want it done now, or you can kiss your whole fucking Galactic Empire good-bye!”

“My lord…”

“Just shut up with that ‘lord’ crap while you’re at it, and get your ass back up that ladder!”

“I have my orders, Mr. Brown…”

“Then they’ve ordered you to die, you stupid son of a bitch! Last chance!”

“And you think they’ll deliver if you kill me?” Curran shouted, backing away another step.

The air suddenly stilled, and for a moment an unnatural silence fell. Then the voice spoke again, and to Curran it sounded more like growling machinery than like anything human.

“State your terms, then, errand boy.”

Curran did not think this was the time for formality or protocol; he gave his position in the simplest, most direct way he could. “We want your spies withdrawn, that’s all. We know we didn’t get them all. We want them out of the Empire, and your word that you won’t send more. As soon as they’re gone, we deliver the bodies.”

Again there was a moment of eerie stillness. Then the voice, once again sounding human, said, “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“You really want them withdrawn, or would you rather they turned themselves in? You could question them about whatever they did for Shadow before I took over; might be interesting for your cops.”

Curran hesitated. That hadn’t been covered in his instructions; no one had considered the possibility that Brown could be so ruthless as to turn his own people over to Imperial Intelligence.

It seemed an irresistible opportunity, and after all, if Secretary Sheffield decided it was a mistake, he could just have them all sent through the warp.

Or killed.

“Either one would be satisfactory,” he said.

“They’ll turn themselves in, then,” the voice said. “Easier for me-I don’t have any use for them here.”

“As you please.”

“It may take a few days for word to reach ’em all.”

“Of course.”

“If you get back up that ladder and get the gears turning on your end, I’ll get started on mine. I want those corpses soon-you tell your people that. No more stupid delays; as soon as my people start surrendering, you get those bodies here.”

“I’ll deliver your terms, of course.” Curran bowed again.

“Go on, then!”

Curran turned and walked off with as much dignity as he could muster, hoping he wouldn’t have any difficulty finding the ladder and donning his space suit in the dark.

He was not looking forward to that long climb.

The welcome at the top should be pleasant enough, though; Brown had, after all, agreed.

* * * *

Pel didn’t bother to watch as the Imperial geek put his space suit on and started up the ladder; despite his shouting, he knew it would be hours before Curran could get his message through and the bureaucracy could process it. He didn’t really expect the bodies to be delivered for a day or so.

Pel shook his head as he trudged back toward I.S.S. Christopher.

That outfit Curran wore was really amazing; now that Pel was over his initial surprise and subsequent fury, he could marvel at its absurdity. The Galactic Empire really did have some odd quirks. Why would they dress their ambassadors, or whatever they were, like that?

It certainly made them distinctive, anyway.

Which was probably the point.

If that regalia was what ambassadors wore, what did the Emperor wear for formal occasions?

It didn’t matter, of course. What mattered was getting Nancy and Rachel back. And that would be easy enough; all he had to do was order Gregory to spread the word-everyone was to pass the message on, then surrender to the Imperial authorities.

That was really reasonable enough; when Pel had first heard that the Empire had terms he had expected something difficult or unpleasant. Once he had his family back, though, what did he need spies for?

He wondered what the Empire would do with them all; Pel didn’t know himself how extensive Shadow’s network of spies actually was, but he was fairly sure there were at least a couple of dozen. He supposed they’d wind up serving time in prison for espionage.

If they had been real people, Pel might have felt guilty about that, but surely they were all simulacra or fetches or other Shadow-creatures, and from everything he’d seen of those, they had such a flattened emotional response that prison probably wouldn’t bother them much.

And maybe he could work some sort of trade later on, buy them free somehow.

Maybe he should have said that he’d withdraw them, rather than suggesting that they turn themselves in-but what would he have done with them all, here in Faerie? They’d have just been in the way.

And it would have taken ages to round them all up.

He stumbled over a broken branch, and, annoyed, vaporized it in a shower of emerald-green sparks.

Then he was in the clearing, the bat-thing’s remains rearing up before him in an eerie maze of black flesh and white bone; he marched past without paying much attention, up to the hatchway of Christopher.

He’d open his portal to Gregory’s place, whatever it was, aboard the ship; he didn’t want to do it out here in the open, where stray birds or chipmunks or something might wander through it. He wondered if birds ever flew into the Empire’s space-warp up there, to emerge into vacuum and die.

That was a nasty thought.

And for that matter, he wondered why air didn’t flow constantly through the opening into the space beyond. Did the warp create some sort of static field, perhaps, that held it back?

He didn’t know-and it didn’t matter.

The interior of the ship wasn’t quite as he remembered it; there were dead leaves here and there, a few seats had been removed, and it appeared that something had chewed at some of the maroon leatherette upholstery.

Squirrels, probably.

The lights didn’t work, of course, but the matrix made them superfluous in any case.

He settled in one of the aisle seats that was still clean and intact, and began concentrating on opening a portal.

It was much more difficult than he had expected; the nearness of the space-warp created a fierce counter-pressure that he had to struggle against, and the relative weakness of the matrix so far from any power spot left him with far less energy than he had ever had available before when attempting such a task.

Nonetheless, after about half an hour of effort that left him sweating and trembling, he forced open the portal.

Nothing happened. No one stepped out.

“God damn it!” Pel shouted. Fighting to maintain the spell, he reached a magical tendril back into the aft storeroom and swept out everything he could reach.

Steel bottles of oxygen, purple cotton packs and bedrolls, black folding shovels, pieces of space suits, and a great pile of unidentifiable equipment came tumbling through the hatchway into the passenger compartment; Pel let most of it drop as he snatched up an oxygen cylinder and heaved it through the portal.

It vanished, instantly and silently, but Pel was sure it made a suitable clatter on the other side.

He waited.

The portal refused to stabilize completely; keeping it open took a constant effort, and after five more minutes Pel wasn’t sure how long he could hold it. The matrix seemed to be fighting him, rather than cooperating.

He found a piece of equipment with glass parts-he had no idea what it was, some sort of scientific apparatus by the look of it-and heaved that through the opening.

Then he waited again.

Finally, Gregory’s head appeared, and a moment later Pel’s chief spy stood aboard the ship, looking around with mild interest.

“Yes, master?” he asked.

Pel cleared his throat, and began explaining.

When he got to the main point, that everyone was to surrender, Gregory’s usual bland expression turned uneasy.

“O Great One, are you sure that…”

“Sure enough. Do it.”

“Yes, master,” Gregory said unhappily.

It was the first time Pel had seen such unhappiness on a simulacrum’s face, and he felt a twinge of guilt.

“Listen, if you think they’ll mistreat you…”

“No, O Great One, it’s not that,” Gregory explained. “It’s that we’ll no longer be able to serve you. We won’t have a master to tell us what to do.”

Pel blinked.

Shadow had obviously done a thorough job of indoctrinating her creations-or maybe it was something in the nature of simulacra.

“All right, then,” he said, “if you want, and they allow it, you can swear fealty or whatever to the Emperor, and make him your new master.”

Gregory’s relief was evident. “Thank you,” he said.

“Now, get back there and get it started!”

* * * *

Curran was startled to not see any officials in the prep room when he emerged from the airlock. He had expected Markham and Albright and Secretary Sheffield to be waiting impatiently, had thought they would reprimand him for taking the time to remove his space suit.

Instead there was just an ordinary soldier standing there, ready to welcome him back.

“This way, sir,” the young man said, gesturing.

Curran followed, puzzled, as he was led out of the warp facility and into the main working area of Base One, down corridors and up lifts until he arrived at the door of a conference room.

Two guards stood at the door. After an exchange of salutes and whispers, one of the guards opened the door and ushered Curran in.

Sheffield stood at the head of a long table, presiding over the meeting; along the sides were Markham, Albright, and Howe, as Curran might have expected-but also John Bascombe, Samuel Best, Sebastian Warner, Ron Wilkins, Brian Hall, Carrie Hall, General Hart, Major Cochran, and at least a dozen others Curran didn’t immediately recognize.

Everyone who had attended any of Curran’s briefings for this assignment appeared to be present.

All of them glanced up as the door opened.

“Ah, Curran,” Secretary Sheffield said. “Come in! We’ve saved you a seat.” He pointed.

Curran took the chair indicated, between Best and Warner, and whispered to Best, “What’s happened?”

Best leaned over and whispered back, “One of Brown’s agents threatened the Emperor. In person. In the Imperial Palace itself.”

“He what?” Curran blinked.

“She. We got word telepathically just after you went through the warp-even thought about calling you back, but by the time we could have suited someone else up…”

“How’d this person…what did she…”

“No one knows how she got in, but she was waiting in the Emperor’s private apartments when he prepared to retire, and she told him that the Brown Magician wants the bodies now.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But what’s really frightening,” Best said, “is that she got away.”

“How?”

“We don’t know.”

“I take it, Mr. Curran,” Sheffield’s voice said, overriding the private exchange, “that Mr. Best has filled you in on the situation.”

Curran looked up, startled. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“I believe you’ve just spoken with the Brown Magician-and after this latest stunt, I begin to think he deserves to be called a magician.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he say anything that might shed light on this situation?”

Curran hesitated, swallowed, then stood up, and reported the conversation.

He was still answering questions about the details when the telepaths began delivering the first reports of surrendering agents.

* * * *

“So what’s the general attitude over there?” the lieutenant asked casually.

“Scared shitless,” Carleton Miletti replied.

That was different; the lieutenant struggled not to show any interest, since that might break Miletti’s semi-trance. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, Brown did something they didn’t think was possible, something to do with their emperor,” Miletti explained.

“What did he do?”

Miletti shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Was he trying to scare them into turning over the remains?” the lieutenant asked.

“Probably. They don’t know.”

“Didn’t work, of course.”

“Of course not.”

* * * *

Pel stretched and yawned as he stood in the open hatchway. He’d slept away most of the morning, he was sure. The sunlight spattered across the clearing was not at a particularly low angle.

Leaves rustled overhead, and branches sighed in the breeze, but other than that all was quiet. There was no Imperial deputation waiting to deliver the bodies.

He supposed they might be huddling at the foot of the ladder, but he doubted it. More likely they were signing receipts and filling out forms before releasing anything. Either that, or they were waiting to see how many spies they collected before they paid for them.

After a good night’s sleep, Pel was in a far better temper than he had been; he was willing to be magnanimous and patient. The Empire had agreed to deliver the corpses, he had met their terms-it was just a matter of time.

He hopped down from the ship and ambled toward the ladder, smiling.

* * * *

The first surrenders were on Delta Scorpius IV; from there, they radiated out into the Empire at slightly less than the speed a courier ship could travel.

Word of the initial round reached Base One almost instantly; when Samuel Best had turned up on Delta Scorpius IV, Albright had made sure that the local government there had a telepath on hand at all times. He’d also had men search the area where Best said he had appeared, and had had a guard posted, but had not located any sort of space-warp. Best’s description wasn’t sufficient to pinpoint the exact spot, but at least they knew which building it was-Best said he had found himself in the office area of an old warehouse.

When the surrenders began, Albright had sent for a report from those guards.

There had been a small disturbance a day or so before the first surrender-objects had appeared loudly from nowhere. A civilian who had been hanging around, one of the people who worked there, had argued with the guards, slipped out of sight for a time, then returned.

They hadn’t held him. Albright cursed them all for idiots when he heard that.

They had checked his identity, though-his name was Peter Gregory. Albright ordered an immediate search.

It was two days later that Gregory was found-or rather, that he turned himself in at the local constabulary, announcing that he was the ringleader of the Brown Magician’s espionage network.

By then, however, Albright hardly cared. The surrenders had spread as far as Base One, and shock after shock was registering as one trusted person after another announced that he or she was actually one of Shadow’s spies, now working for the Brown Magician. The telepaths were constantly busy, interrogating the captured spies-or trying to; many, it turned out, were impervious to telepathy, which explained how they had survived for so long.

No one had expected that.

And no one had expected how many spies would turn themselves in. The official count made Peter Gregory #113, and Marshal Albright was morally certain that there were others whose capture had not yet been reported-and that there were many more yet to come.

After all, these were just from a two-day radius around Delta Scorpius IV, and the Empire’s full expanse required thirty days to cross.

And while no one in the Emperor’s cabinet had surrendered, nor anyone in Intelligence, nor any telepaths-that was a terrifying thought!-still, it was a shock when General Hart’s aide confessed to deliberately arranging for the inept Colonel Carson to command the expedition to Faerie, instead of the competent Captain Haggerty, to ensure the mission’s failure; when an engineer confessed to unsuccessfully attempting to sabotage the entire space-warp program; when Major Harrison acknowledged doing everything he could to ensure hostility between the Empire and Earth…

How could there be so many infiltrators?

Why hadn’t the telepaths long ago spotted them and reported them?

And the most frightening question of all-if Pel Brown was giving all these agents up, what was he holding back?