Power Play Page 11

  “Please,” Bunny said, supporting the weakening Yana against her. “Find something!”

  “I’m really an astronomer, not a medical—”

  “Anything!” Bunny’s anguished cry was punctuated by Yana’s painful barking.

  “Ah, codeine!” Namid Mendeley held up a vial in triumph, and then his expression changed to one of doubt. “But how much?”

  Marmion held out her hand for the vial, then looked at it. “The spray,” she said authoritatively. When she had received that, she filled it and then released the drug into Yana’s throat. Almost magically, it seemed to everyone in the small room, the paroxysm eased and Yana lay, exhausted, against Bunny.

  “And look, an herbal linctus?” Mendeley passed that over to Marmion, who also read its label.

  She broke the seal on the cap, opened the bottle, and passed it to Yana, who let the thick liquid flow into her mouth and down her throat, lining it in a soothing fashion. She recapped the bottle, clutching it to herself, her lungs heaving to reduce the oxygen debt the coughing had caused.

  Dinah O’Neill clicked her fingers at Marmion, who still held the hypospray and the codeine vial. Marmion handed them over.

  “So?” Marmion asked the privateer in a deeply significant tone. “Now what?”

  “Can you walk, Colonel?” Dinah asked, peering down at Yana.

  “If a walk means we can settle this nonsense sooner, I’ll make it.”

  “Ever the valiant colonel,” Dinah replied, dimpling at her. “I do admire your resolution and intrepidity.”

  “Thanks,” Yana said, exhaling wearily. That coughing had taken a lot out of her, but she mustn’t indicate just how much.

  “Good. Then Megenda, the first mate, will escort you to the captain’s cabin. I have other duties to attend.”

  “Macci?” Marmion asked, hopeful of an answer.

  “Now, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” Dinah said, mildly reproving, and went off. The doctor of astronomy followed her, and then a larger figure loomed in the hatch opening.

  First Mate Megenda was a tall, muscular black man who probably had ended up a pirate-privateer because he looked the part so completely. One eye was a cyber-implant that was only slightly less grotesque than an eyepatch. He had cut the sleeves out of his orange coverall and wore a striped jersey beneath it and a flowered red bandanna around his shaven skull. Really, Yana thought, grasping at any diversion, the man had been watching far too many swashbuckling holovids.

  He gestured peremptorily for them to follow him, and an equally large and threatening-looking fellow, olive-green rather than black, fell in behind Diego, who was last to leave their prison. Yana managed another swig of the linctus—just the act of getting up made the tickle return to her throat—and then they were led through corridor after endless corridor, past supply locks and repair bays and what looked like weapons rooms and cybersleep facilities, storage bay after storage bay. Some of them, Yana could have sworn, they passed by more than once. They walked until her feet hurt and her cough was ceaseless, but still their captors led them on through more corridors. The captain evidently controlled business on the ship via remote most of the time, because the captain’s quarters certainly appeared to be hard to reach. Most of the commands that didn’t come via computer were probably relayed by the O’Neill woman and the first mate.

  But the captain made the first mate look normal. The chamber into which Megenda led them was theatrical in the extreme, resembling an opulent captain’s chamber from an ancient sailing vessel, with swags of rich material, hard-copy navigational charts, antique compasses and sextants and things that would be of very little use in space, plus a computer console and a few other contemporary touches disguised in what appeared to be real wooden settings.

  Behind a large carved desk, the top of which was an immense star chart, sat the infamous Onidi Louchard. Yana had wondered what this pirate chieftain would be like. She’d heard that Louchard was a woman. Hard to tell. To the world, the captain appeared as an Aurelian—a six-armed, vaguely humanoid creature with a craw full of fangs that would have stretched from ear to ear had the creature had ears, and an optical slit that circled its entire cranial prominence. This was a holocover. Even if the wavy aura weren’t discernible, which it was, though only slightly, an Aurelian, even an Aurelian pirate—an unlikely occupation for a peaceful sea-dweller with a language similar to that of Earth’s aquatic mammals—even an Aurelian who could live outside its normal environment would have no conceivable use for the gadgetry displayed in that room.

  Also, this particular Aurelian dry-environment-dwelling pirate spoke pretty good English, through some sort of distorting device.

  “I had no idea you had a sense of humor, Louchard,” Yana stopped coughing long enough to say.

  “Enough. You will record the messages as they are written for you on these sheets. You, Madame Algemeine, will have all of your liquid credits transferred in the manner described here. In addition, you will sell your interest in the following concerns for the price given to the first buyer approaching your broker. The entire transaction, needless to say, will be kept completely confidential if you wish to remain alive, alert, articulated, and anatomically complete. These transactions will take place in time-controlled sections so that any security measures on the part of your people will be detected and you will, I guarantee, suffer for them.

  “As for you, Colonel Maddock, in addition to the demands we list there, I suggest that you have your husband send along some of the famous Petaybean cough syrup that cured you the first time. Signing over the patent to the party we suggest, of course. I warn you that any resistance or reluctance on your part will result in unfortunate consequences for the young people accompanying you, as well as for yourself. It will also prolong your stay with us, and we are not equipped with any provisions for delivering babies. I trust when you record your messages, you ladies will endeavor to sound sincere and very, very convincing . . . Begin.”

  11

  Kilcoole

  Sean Shongili was awakened by Adak, who had just received word via Johnny Greene that stragglers from the shuttle containing the first group of hunters showed up in Harrison’s Fjord, suffering from exposure and demanding to make contact with their attorneys.

  He was still sorting that out when Una Monaghan located him in Clodagh’s cabin, dragged him down the road to Yana’s, and pointed at the comm link. Yana’s voice transmission was staticky, but the words appearing on the screen were unmistakable.

  “We’ve been kidnapped, Sean—me, Marmion, Bunny, and Diego—and this is what the ransom is,” she began as his knees, suddenly unable to support him, folded and his butt hit the seat of the chair. “They don’t intend to let us go until the ransom’s all paid.”

  “But we don’t have any credit!” Sean began in protest.

  “We’re apparently in possession of a valuable planet—” Yana began coughing.

  “Yana? Are you all right?”

  “She is not all right,” another voice said. “She coughs much and bloodily and—”

  The transmission was abruptly cut off. Sean stared at the comm unit, then tapped it, thinking the connection had merely been interrupted. But after a few more moments of useless tinkering, he had to admit that wasn’t the case.

  “And the ransom is Petaybee?” And just how did the kidnappers expect him to hand over a planet? A planet that certainly wasn’t his to give!

  “Sean?” Una had popped her head around the door.

  “Una! Get Johnny and find out how we can reestablish contact with the parties who’ve kidnapped Yana, our baby, Bunny and Diego, and Madame Algemeine!”

  “Kidnapped?” Una’s voice broke. “Johnny! Yes, I’ll get Johnny. He’ll know.”

  Johnny didn’t, but he opened a channel to the space station and Dr. Whittaker Fiske. Whit, recovering nobly and quickly from the shock of the news, said that he’d find out or die trying.

  Sean was unable to attend to any of even the mo
st pressing duties. Una and the other offworlders who were being assigned to useful services for the benefit of the emerging Petaybean government carried on as best they could. Though the true nature of the problem was not mentioned to anyone but Johnny Greene, very shortly everyone in Kilcoole knew that Yana, Bunny, Diego, and Marmion had been kidnapped.

  Nanook crept in to occupy a corner, saying nothing but keeping his amber eyes softly on Sean. Coaxtl, minus ’Cita, arrived shortly and stationed herself on the opposite side. Orange cats appeared briefly in the doorway and disappeared as Sean sat and stared at the comm link, willing it to work and provide good news. Good news only!

  In his head thoughts went round and round on a mental carousel: Yana and his unborn child were kidnapped; Bunny, Diego, and Marmion, too. By whom? For what reason? He had no right to give a planet as security! Not to anyone! Only the planet could say what it would or wouldn’t do. Maybe that was the answer. The best thing to do with the problem was turn it over to the planet. But he couldn’t leave the office, not until that bedamned, unworking comm link awoke with some news. Would he see Yana alive again? Would they ever see their baby? Kidnappees did not often return unharmed, alive or compos mentis. Who knew in what condition they’d be returned, if they were returned? Anything could happen to them—maiming that was not just physical, but mental and emotional, as well. He’d heard rumors of hideous mind-wiping devices that could totally destroy personalities.

  How had Marmion let an abduction occur? She’d promised they’d all be safe for that “short time” it would take to satisfy the CIS Committee about the nature of Petaybee. They’d been gone long past the original estimates. So the kidnappers could set it all up? And start swamping the planet with drug merchants, hunters, religious orders, orphans, homeless relatives, and all sorts of human flotsam and jetsam? And no facilities to handle such an influx!

  The comm link buzzed and Sean pounced on it like a hungry mink on a roosting chicken.

  “Sorry to tell you this, Sean,” Whittaker Fiske said, “but the kidnapper has been identified as Onidi Louchard, a well-known and clever pirate with a well-equipped outfit and a base no law-enforcement agency’s ever been able to discover. Louchard is ruthless, and has formidable resources.”

  “Do they have a medic?” Sean demanded savagely, the sound of Yana’s coughing echoing in his ears. Damn! She’d only just gotten over the aftereffects of the Bremport gassing. How could she be subjected to another episode?

  “Huh?” Whit was taken aback by the unexpected question.

  “Yana’s got a cough again, bad enough so they use it to threaten me with.”

  “They lose her as hostage and they’ve no leverage . . .”

  “Damn it, Whit, what d’you mean by that?”

  “That if she’s sick, they’ll bloody well see she gets better! Of course. What’d you think I meant?”

  Sean murmured something but Whit went on: “The commander of Gal Three’s organized a massive search of and contact with every vessel that left the docks since before Yana, Marmion, and the kids went missing. They’re leaving nothing to chance.” Whit gave a groan. “But it’s going to take time. That’s one of the busiest stations in the whole Intergal net. I’ve also had a word with Anaciliact, and he’s none too happy with that PTS group. He’s going to get an injunction against them to prevent any further unauthorized trips to the surface. I’m going one better. I’m getting permission for you to have a representative in the SpaceBase control tower, so you can trace any drops they might make before that injunction is served. We gotta find them first.” Whit made a noise of total disgust and annoyance at the obstacles. “We don’t need any of this right now!”

  “Precisely why we have it,” Sean said bitterly. “Can you spare Johnny to watch the screen?”

  Whittaker shook his head regretfully. “Much as I’d like to, he’s far more useful elsewhere than sitting on his duff looking at a screen for hours on end.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get Una to see what she can come up with.”

  That was a good notion: Una possessed a knack for finding people with unusual, and useful talents. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it.

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “I’ll keep in touch, Sean, and see what else I can learn that’s going on at Gal Three.”

  “Find out where Luzon is,” Sean said dourly.

  “I did. He’s doing intensive therapy in some fancy spa to get active again.”

  “Again? He’s never stopped being active—against Petaybee.”

  “If we could prove that, Sean,” Whit said in a savage and none-too-hopeful tone, “we’d do Intergal a big favor.”

  “Count on me.”

  As soon as the link broke, Sean explained to Una what was needed and why.

  “One of my first group, I think, had some station-keeping experience,” she said after a long moment’s thought. “I thought it very odd indeed that we were landed so far from any place civilized . . .”

  Sean burst out laughing. She regarded him in some surprise.

  “You do my heart good, Una. You consider Kilcoole civilized?”

  “Comparatively speaking,” she said with a slight grin, gratified that she had eased the haunted look on Sean’s face. She had come to admire him very much in the short time she’d been working with him, helping him with impossible burdens—not the least of which was this continuous influx of unnecessary people, especially the commercial types who seemed so eager to raid whatever wealth this planet held. “We were told that the SpaceBase had been destroyed so we would have to be landed at a distance from the nearest community . . .”

  “Only the exact distance wasn’t specified.”

  “That’s it. Had I known what I know now . . .”

  “Tell me, Una, exactly what were you told and by whom?”

  She paused, organizing her thoughts: Sean had discovered that organization was her strong suit.

  “Well, first there was the bulletin about Petaybee being a sentient planet. So I tagged the word on my terminal for any further information, knowing, you see, that some of my family had been sent here. Petaybee”—she gave him a little smile—“was suddenly much in the bulletins, and then the advertisement appeared, offering safe and quick transport facilities to the surface of the planet.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, about three weeks after the first mention of Petaybee. I had enough frequent-flyer hours to my credit to get to the Intergal Station easily enough. And the cost of getting to Petaybee’s surface was not all that much, considering. In fact, rather cheap.”

  “Cheap enough to attract passengers, huh?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I got to the Intergal Station, the transit desk told me to book in at the Mallside hostelry, where all Petaybean passengers had to register. When I checked in, I had to deposit the fare and then I was given a departure time.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “The clerk at Mallside. Oh, I got a stamped passage chit, or believe you me, I wouldn’t have handed over most of the last credits I had to my name.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to remember the number of the account to which you credited the fare?”

  “I do. BM-20-2334-57.” She repeated it so that Sean could jot it down. “The next morning I was given a time to assemble in the hotel lobby. I must say I was a little surprised at the . . . diversity of my fellow passengers. And relieved to find that there were other folks trying to find their Petaybean relatives.”

  “What did your courier look like?”

  “There wasn’t one. When I arrived . . . a little ahead of time, I admit, because I was so eager to be on time. Some small link transports don’t wait so it’s wiser to be on time,” she told Sean in her earnest manner. He nodded and she continued. “There was a printed notice that we were to proceed to the departure gate. Anyone not on time would forfeit thei
r fare.” She paused. “The only thing that reassured me was that the transport was so obviously new—one of the other passengers said it was even state-of-the-art.”

  “Would you have forfeited your fare if it had been a ramshackle vehicle?” Sean asked.

  She gave a little laugh. “No, I’d sold up to get here. But to the business at hand, Sean, it’s Simon Furey who might stand watch for you at SpaceBase. He’s the one who noticed how new the transport was.”

  “Where’s he right now?”

  “We can ask Wild Star. She’s teaching in the latchkay shed.”

  Wild Star was certain that her husband Simon would be quite willing to help Sean out. Simon seconded that when they found him. In the first place, he’d love to get his hands on the guy who had dumped them down in the middle of nowhere. If it hadn’t been for ’Cita, they could have frozen to death their first night on the planet. In the second place, he had two badly blistered hands from chopping wood, which was the chore he’d been assigned in Kilcoole.

  “I don’t mind doing my share, like,” he said, displaying the bloody signs of his industry, “but I’d rather a chance to toughen up more gradually, like. Ya know what I mean?”

  He said he’d stood enough watches on the mining vessels he’d worked over the past twenty years so that he felt himself able to do what Sean wanted.

  “Just don’t mess the guy up so much we can’t get civil answers out of him, will you?” Sean asked wryly.

  The shuttle was due to make its weekly descent to Petaybee within the next thirty-two hours, and Simon was able to plot from its trajectory where it would touch down: in the forest nearer Shannonmouth than Kilcoole. There was no pilot to remonstrate with or wring information from. A highly sophisticated remote-control module guided it to and from Petaybee.

  This Simon Furey discovered when he barged past the disembarking passengers and attempted to get into the pilot compartment. He’d come prepared with a device that would disable electronic locks, so he got into the forward cabin.