"They'll kill you if they find out, Magister. Think! What will happen to the people? What will happen to the temples?" She blinked at the thought, fighting back tears, mouth working. "They'll destroy us!"
Wind and rain buffeted the vehicle, requiring all her concentration to keep the ride smooth and controlled.
And what will you do, my precious beauty, when they turn on us? What resources do you have inside yourselp Are you ready for this seething cauldron we've created? Are you all we hoped you'd be? "Everything is going according to plan. Everything. "
"Last time, blood ran in the streets like rainwater Magister." Her glance darted to the grenade launcher. '
He studied her, noting the slim hands-white-knuckled where they gripped the control stick. As they passed above, she watched a fire racing through pressed-wood residential structures. People ran frantically into the streets, bent double under boxes of possessions they sought to save. She mumbled a quick prayer under her breath.
The city looked shabby, the buildings squat and boxy. The slanting rain left the whole place gray and shiny in the downpour. He absently cataloged the flimsy structures so hastily rebuilt out of rubble and the cheapest of materials. Kaspa had become a city of squalor after the devastation wrought by the Star Butcher during the last rebellion. Beyond the city limits, mostly obscured by clouds, ragged mountains rose dark against the horizon. Here and there he could make out brooding stands of trees that mantled the lower slopes.
He grunted a heavy sigh and patted the grenade launcher. "Blood and terror, death and misery. Revolution, dear girl, has no other price. It is bought through injustice, fear, and suffering. "
"For what?"
Does she have what we need? What if I'm wrong?
"For the betterment of the human condition, dear girl. Civilization is like that. It wavers forever back and forth.
Sometimes life becomes black and repressive — spawning tyrannies like the Regan Empire. At other times human society lives in periods of light and freedom where the soul wells and sings — except people never fully appreciate those times either. Complacency, Arta, is the unenviable legacy of any human endeavor. We become bored with what we have — and what we endure. The dreams grow stale in our minds. Good or evi, right or wrong, just or unjust, the conditions around us become expected — fatalistic, if you will."
"And you stir that with blood?"
"Only 'stirring'—as you put it — avoids stagnation. Without jumbling the pot there is no growth."
She stared out over the city at the people running in the streets. Combat-armored troops were lashing the crowd with violet blaster fire. From somewhere, someone shot back. Bruen noticed the shiver that ran through her and sighed wearily.
He spotted the cruiser first. A long lean thing, it dove out of the black swirling clouds. "Arta, we have visitors. The Civil Police are descending upon us, and, if I'm not mistaken, the wrath of Rega is emblazoned on the shield across the front of their aircar."
Her shoulders sagged. The awkward posture gave her a gutted look.
The aws of the lion, Arta. What now, sweet beauty? Pray to the Quantum Gods that I have made no mistake with you. Bruen ran gnarled fingers over the cold steel of his grenade launcher. But if I have.
The long black vehicle blared a warning as Arta slowed. She fought for control as she braked the aircar to the slowest speed whereby it would maintain stability in the stormgusting air. Rain battered loudly against the cab.
A cold authoritative voice ordered: "Identify yourselves! Martial law has been declared. This is a state of emergency and you are in violation of the air transport codes."
Arta picked up the comm phone, voice breaking. "Please, I'm taking my grandfather away from all this. We're just going to the country until this ghastly unrest is straightened out. That's all."
And the pleading in her voice? Act? Or truth?
Blaring speakers announced, "Open your door. You will
be boarded by members of the Civil Police and escorted to a holding area. There you will be charged for violation of the air transport regulations and a violation of curfew."
Arta bit her lip and reached over to unlock the door. "I'm sorry, Magister. I–I thought we could get away. When they see our robes…" Their Seddi gowns marked them as immediate suspects — suspects to be brain-probed.
Bruen waited patiently, monitoring her expression, following her thoughts as they were mirrored on her wretched face. Had she forgotten the weapon on the seat beside her? Had fear so completely paralyzed her?
The long black shape matched speeds and settled beside them. A port slid open and a grapple locked to their door. Arta tried to swallow, heedless of the rain that blew past to spatter the plastic seats and lash their robes. Across the space, a black-uniformed man prepared to cross. Bruen leaned forward to get a better view, his thin hand pulling at the wet door frame.
"Oh, Rotted Gods," Arta moaned on the verge of frustrated tears. The young patrolman started across the walkway.
Now or never, girl! Bruen clutched the launcher to his chest, eyes on Arta.
She moved in a blur. The deafening BLAM left his ears ringing with concussion. A vile odor insulted his nose as acrid smoke blew in the open door. The aircar lurched drunkenly to one side.
Without missing a beat, Arta fought the controls. Instinctively, she gripped the grenade launcher in one fist. Magister Bruen found himself struggling to keep from falling out the open hatch, his frail fingers slipping on wet upholstery.
As Arta pulled the craft up, she stared out the still open door, apparently shocked to notice that the Civil Police craft was gone — only the ragged smoking remains of the boarding ramp still attached to the aircar. The metal along the edges looked melted and hissed vapor in the rain.
"What was… I… I didn't. " She tried to articulate her disbelief. Slowly her eyes dropped to the grenade launcher. Wisps of smoke still rose from the ugly belled muzzle.
With a bar pulled from the tool kit, Bruen began working
the claws of the grapple loose, rain pelting his face as he cackled gleefully into the fury of the storm.
Vindication! Blessed Gods, she's good. Never held a grenade launcher in her life — and she knew what to do!
"Dearest Arta, if you'd be so kind as to depart from the area, they might have another cruiser in this part of the city. You worry about getting me to Makarta, dear. I'll attend to any official interruptions."
"But, what… I mean, where did the Civil Patrol… I killed. What the hell happened, Bruen?" She glared at him.
"Look down, and go?" he ordered, making a motion with his hand as he pried the last of the grapple overboard and slammed the door shut.
She dropped her gaze in time to catch a glimpse of smoking wreckage just as it plummeted through a rain-shiny slate roof in the residential district. The edifice shook with impact. As if in slow motion, the walls collapsed inward, folding around the vanished craft like the petals of some huge muddy-brown flower. A single man ran frantically from a door as the last of the wals collapsed.
"Holy Gods! What did I do?" Gulping air, she slapped the throttle forward.
In the back seat Magister Bruen hummed softly to himself as he wiped the water from her thermal grenade launcher.
Skyla Lyma stretched her long legs as she sat in Chrysla command chair and wished she could get up and pace to restore circulation, or do anything except carry on this conversation with the Sassan admiral whose image filled the main bridge monitor.
Chrysla's spotless bridge gleamed in the overhead lighting. Polished deck plating and well maintained duty stations reflected the pride the Companions had in their flagship. And it didn't stop with hardware. First officers bent to their monitors while various techs murmured softly to the computers. Behind her the Ground Tactics Team coordinated mop-up activities on the planet below. Two officers manned the Traffic Contro station, ensuring that only cleared vehicles approached — and even those under Chrysla's watchful