Accepting the Lance Page 3

  The content of the communication however…

  Claidyne inclined her head. “Your pardon? I fear that I do not understand.”

  He made a slight bow, wry, as his bows were often wry.

  “No, your pardon, Comrade. We are much alike, we two—or, I should say, we four. Each of us is two of us, and I, at least, am not always mindful of my selves.

  “So, to make myself clear: Among the company of which I am an adopted son, there is a tradition of deep meditation to facilitate learning. We call this state Dreaming, and it is of such intensity—such vividness—that it is possible for one to become lost in a Dream. Should that happen, the one who is sitting in watch speaks a phrase given them by the Dreamer before they entered the meditation. The phrase is one that will call them back, no matter how far they have journeyed away from themselves, on the wings of the Dream.”

  “You are a poet, I hear,” said Claidyne, because he had paused and one must say something, even as one sorted this new information.

  “Sadly not, but those who taught me surely were.”

  “And this…Dream you fear I may become locked within?”

  “Your purpose is to Dream the Commander. I require a phrase that will recall the Claidyne ven’Orikle I am speaking with at this moment, even should the Dream be ascendant. It must be—you will pardon me; the poets speak again—it must be a charm that encloses your heart, and will let nothing between you and it.”

  She considered him, this Rys Lin pen’Chala. Wiry and tough, with one arm a work of very art in gleaming metals and enamels. The opposite leg was encased in an equally beautiful powered cast, which ensured that the weak limb did not betray him, so that he might walk and run, leap and fight, as if he were a whole man. The arm, as he had demonstrated, was lethal if he wished it so; he might crush a brick by merely closing his fingers. He knew how to govern himself, however, and he touched her now with warm, gleaming fingers, as gentle as a flutterbee’s kiss.

  “Humor me,” he murmured. “I am set to guard you, after all.”

  That drove the dagger home. Claidyne looked at him now with understanding.

  He was set to guard her, to stand as her backup—and to kill her, if necessary. It was his survival that he addressed with this strange request.

  And her survival depended, absolutely, on his.

  “A moment,” she said to him, and he bowed his head.

  “Indeed, take what time is needed. May I bring you tea?”

  “That would be pleasant, thank you.”

  He crossed to the other side of the small galley, back turned, and very busy with kettle and cups. It was kind in him, to produce the illusion of privacy while she considered, but she already knew that there was only one phrase—one name—that would call her back from death, if not from madness.

  She was ready when Rys Lin returned. She looked up, and perhaps he saw it in her face, for he did not retire again, but placed the teacups on the table and took the chair across from her.

  “Thank you,” she said again, and raised the cup to taste the beverage.

  He did the same, and when they had both set their cups aside, she spoke: “You are two, you say?”

  The question may have surprised him—he kept his own face, did Rys Lin pen’Chala—but he answered easily enough.

  “Indeed. I am he who returned from the Department’s care, and also the youngest of my grandmother’s children.”

  “I understand,” she said, and felt that to be true. “I am two-pinned by the yos’Galan witch’s daggers into the seeming of one.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Once I take the download, I will be Commander of Agents. It is my belief that the work I have done in keeping my two selves simultaneously functional, yet unaware of each other, will allow me to reside side by side with the Commander. To direct the Commander, if you will.”

  “Yes,” he said once more. “There is another possibility. I speak as one who has Dreamed widely and long. I carry the memories of many whose lives I Dreamed, and yet, I am none of them. It is possible that you will not so much become the Commander as you will have access to the Commander.”

  “Is that a preferable outcome?”

  “More manageable, perhaps.” He tipped his head, brows drawing together as he considered his next point. “Less dangerous,” he added.

  “So. The call-back phrase is Isahra kez’Rofer.”

  He gave a small, seated bow.

  “We were lovers,” Claidyne continued, so that he would know the full power of what he held. “I killed her.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Forgive me; I must ask who told you this.”

  She stared at him. “No one need tell me, sir; I did the deed with my own hand, to prove my training complete.”

  “Yes,” he nodded, Terran-wise, “and I destroyed the ship of those who had taken me in and given me worth in my extremity, to prove my training complete.” He held her eyes with his. “It was a lie, implanted by the trainers, as so much else was implanted by the trainers. The ship I killed still flies; the crew very much alive.”

  There was—pain. Sharp and bright and hot—no, cold. The room tipped, and she felt herself sliding—felt her hands caught and held.

  “Claidyne.”

  “A moment,” she gasped. “A moment, I am struck…”

  “Struck with hope,” he murmured. “I understand.”

  Hope? Well, perhaps so. It had been…so very long since she had felt hope, or any emotion save a grim determination, that she would, with her own hands, bring the Department of Interior down…

  “Claidyne?”

  “I am well,” she told him, and withdrew her hands from his.

  “I am very well, indeed.”

  • • • ✴ • • •

  They left Vazineth with the ship: their last hope, Vazineth, aside being a pilot. Should the Commander overwhelm Claidyne and Rys Lin, despite all, then it fell to Vazineth to stop the threat—with prejudice.

  They had discussed it among themselves, whether it might not serve them well, to have two Commanders pitched against each other. In the end, though, they had to admit that they did not know if there was a non-compete application built into the program. Far, far worse than the present situation, to have two Commanders collaborating on the subjugation of the universe.

  The surrounding terrain was rocky; a path had been smoothed from the landing pad to the structures. Here and there the rock glittered coldly, like ice or crystal.

  Claidyne approached the entrance first, Rys Lin walking behind, as befit a guard to the Commander’s honor. This outpost was, as they were, also a last hope.

  It was very old, a hall carved through oxidized rock into the very heart of a moon. Though it was tagged in the records as the fourth such transfer point, Claidyne had supposed it to be, in fact, the first, from which the others had been cloned. Those three points were outfitted with sophisticated identification methods; each held a list in memory of those who were cleared to rise to the rank of Commander should the present one fall.

  This unit had no such modern blandishments. It required the mere inputting of preset codes into each of a series of doors. There was no list of qualified candidates for the download, no retinal photographs, no brain scans on file when the first Commander was recruited—how could there be? This was the first download point, arrived in mystery, discovered by who knew what arts or accident. The research she had done furtively offered no history for this unit, only the fact of its existence.

  Claidyne input the next code, waiting with cool detachment for the door to open. The others had opened promptly, and it would not be well at all, she thought, as heartbeats passed and the second-to-last door remained closed, if she were thwarted now—

  “Down!” Rys Lin shouted, augmenting this with a forcible shove, that sent her stumbling out of the doorway—

  Out of range of the beam that leapt from the door, and the other, lancing down from the ceiling.

  She came up onto her knees
, weapon in hand.

  “Rys Lin.”

  “Here,” he answered, behind her and near at hand.

  Claidyne took a breath and surveyed the situation. The gritty stone floor showed a bright patch where the first beam had struck it; the wall to the right, at about the height of her shoulder, showed a white scar among the several older, darker scars.

  Behind her, she felt Rys Lin, poised and watchful. He did not ask her what she would do now. That was her question to ask, and in fact she asked it, within the privacy of her skull.

  A booby trap. Well, of course, there would be at least one trap, to determine if whoever had come to propose herself was clever enough to survive.

  And, she thought, rising and thrusting the gun back into its holster—if she was bold enough to try again.

  She approached the door, set her fingers to the pad.

  Behind her, she heard Rys Lin gather himself to his feet and take up his position. The skin between her shoulder blades itched; her eyes strained to look in every cranny—behavior unbecoming a candidate for Commander. She had her guard; more importantly, she had her own integrity and courage. She was worthy.

  And she was not afraid.

  She input the code once more.

  The door before her opened, and she stepped through.

  * * *

  The last door had yielded. Lights came up—too bright, too yellow—revealing the walls lined with racks and tiles, and the chair with its restraints and connectors.

  It was now. Now, her life came to fruition. Now, every terrible thing she had done by the will of the Department would be Balanced and put to rest.

  She walked to the chair and sat down.

  Restraints snapped ’round wrists and ankles. She welcomed them.

  The last thing she saw before the hood slid down over her head, her face, was Rys Lin pen’Chala standing in the open doorway, gun in hand.

  * * *

  Perhaps she expected pain. Perhaps she had expected—

  But, no. There were no expectations; there was only herself, and the voice praising her integrity, her courage, her determination.

  Would she serve? came the question.

  She would.

  And would she accept perfection, until she was as perfect as it was possible for her to be?

  She would.

  There was a brief moment of disorientation, perhaps, in which she did not entirely know herself. It passed between one breath and the next, and she was herself, as she had never been herself before.

  She had been a broken thing, imperfect, flawed, scarcely able to think. Now…

  Now, she was worthy, she was strong, her thoughts flowed, and her intentions formed with clarity.

  She was in command.

  She knew—everything. She knew what must be done to implement the Plan, to bring it to a successful conclusion.

  The upstarts would not prevail. Could not prevail. Not against her.

  Commander of Agents opened her eyes.

  Before her stood a soldier—one of her own; she knew him at once by the modifications he had accepted in order to make himself more perfectly able to serve.

  “We must consolidate our strengths,” she said to him.

  “Indeed,” he replied, perfectly civil but with a marked lack of respect for command.

  She rose, and looked down upon him, with his gleaming arm and the articulated golden fingers.

  “I can unmake you,” she said clearly, “and bestow the knowledge woven into that arm on another, more worthy to serve me.”

  Dark eyes widened slightly. The salute he offered showed respect and not a little awe. She was pleased with his cleverness. Perhaps he was worthy to serve, after all.

  “Report!” she snapped at him.

  “Commander,” he returned. “Isahra kez’Rofer.”

  Pain sheeted through her; her brain burned, and for a moment it was as if she were standing in this very room, facing herself, weapons drawn, and a voice, a beloved voice, crying out, “Claidyne, close the door!”

  Lurching, she grabbed the sharp metal edge and heaved the door across, shutting her second self away.

  It troubled her briefly that she did not hear the lock engage—and then she forgot it as she opened her eyes to find Rys Lin pen’Chala standing before her, eyes intent, hand specifically away from his gun.

  “That,” she said, marking how her voice shook, “that is a strong program.”

  “Are you entirely yourself?” he asked her. “Can you remain outside of the Dream?”

  “I believe so, on both counts,” she answered, “but keep with me, Rys Lin.”

  “Yes,” he told her, coming forward and extending his natural hand. “Every step of the way.”

  • • • ✴ • • •

  Vazineth ser’Trishan sat her board, awaiting the return of her comrades.

  Awaiting, if the Plan sang according to scale, the arrival of Commander of Agents. A Commander of Agents.

  This was the mission, and while Vazineth had her doubts regarding their likelihood of success, she’d not been able to offer a better plan, with a higher surety value.

  In Vazineth’s opinion, the best odds on the day’s venture went to Claidyne being killed by the download. Second best was that both Claidyne and Rys Lin would be killed before they ever reached the download chamber, by booby trap or hidden guard.

  Her third probability was that Claidyne would take the download, kill Rys Lin, and order in a battleship to escort her off-planet. There was a variation on this scenario: that Claidyne, lacking the means to call for escort and having murdered Rys Lin, would return to the ship, kill Vazineth and pilot herself to the nearest command safe-house.

  There was also, Vazineth admitted, a vanishingly small chance that everything would go exactly as planned, but who, among the three of them, had ever believed that would be the case?

  Well. Possibly Rys Lin, who seemed, improbably, to be an optimist. But even Rys Lin had made provision should he not survive Claidyne’s attempt.

  He had given Vazineth a name to research while she sat with the scans, largely idle, awaiting whatever came out of the tunnels.

  Isahra kez’Rofer.

  Had she access to proper equipment, and been under no constraints to be invisible, she might have done more. As it was, she flattered herself that she had done rather well. Research was her specialty, after all; she could wring data from dead husks, and often proved it.

  This…was not so good as her best, but she was inclined to be pleased with her work. Whether it might save her life, as Rys Lin had hinted, should the worst occur and the Commander come back to the ship without him—that she doubted.

  Still, she made plans for that eventuality. If the information she had found would produce even a moment’s distraction, she might make a push to survive.

  A chime sounded, and she spun to the board, scanning the screens.

  The tone—that was the beacon Rys Lin had carried with him. He would activate it, so the agreement went, when he approached the first door, to alert the ship of an egress from the tunnel.

  So, the alert had been activated, Vazineth thought grimly, which in no way guaranteed that Rys Lin had pressed the button.

  The tunnel was center on her number one screen. She gave it the attention it deserved, even as her fingers toyed with the cover on the atmospheric weapons. The plan was, if Claidyne returned alone, to open to her, for, said Rys Lin, there was no way to know if she were herself or the Commander ascendant, by looking at her.

  Vazineth, recently returned to life and her own self, was…somewhat conflicted regarding this part of the plan, especially should there be no Rys Lin present to enforce it.

  She had not been so avid as the rest of her comrades in this venture, and might simply have withdrawn had there been any opportunity to do so. True, there was some part of her which did clamor for Balance, but Balance at what cost? That was the question that vexed one. And as had lately been proven, some costs were far too high to pay.


  The egress door opened. Vazineth stilled in the pilot’s chair, her hand yet on the weapons lock.

  Claidyne came into view, walking firm and proud, which was her way, and no proof for the Commander or against her.

  Rys Lin came after, walking two steps behind on her offside, precisely as he had gone in. The alert was in his hand.

  Neither appeared greatly changed from when they had entered the tunnel by that very door, several hours ago, and it occurred to Vazineth that there was another possible scenario available to this situation: that Claidyne would survive the download, the Commander ascendant and able to place Rys Lin into her service.

  Vazineth’s fingers tightened on the weapons lock.

  In the screen, Rys Lin increased his pace slightly and came alongside Claidyne, his metal hand touching her shoulder.

  Vazineth waited as he spoke to her, then continued alone toward the ship, both hands up, one showing the alert, the other gleaming metal, palm open, fingers wide.

  She sighed then and released her hold on the weapons lock in favor of flipping the toggle that opened the hatch.

  * * *

  “Have you had,” Rys Lin asked, when they were all on the bridge and Claidyne had declared herself in possession of, yet not possessed by, the download. “Have you had any success in that line of research we spoke of?”

  “I—yes.” Vazineth threw a glance toward Claidyne, who raised her eyebrows.

  “Show her,” he said.

  Yes, of course, Vazineth thought. Anything that they might give Claidyne, so that she remained possessor, rather than possessed.

  “Rys Lin had given me a name,” she said to Claidyne now, “and asked me to find what had come of her. Here…”

  She brought the research screen up with a touch, and rose, ceding the pilot’s chair.

  Claidyne stepped forward, her eyes on the screen—and sagged. She might have fallen, Vazineth thought, save that Rys Lin caught her by the elbow and spun the chair so that she sat, abruptly and without grace, her whole attention still on the screen.

  “We will make a meal,” Rys Lin said then, and pointed toward the galley with his chin.

  Vazineth needed no more hint than that. She left the bridge and had just started the kettle heating when he joined her.