The Cause of Death Read online

  Better, far better, to make the next shot count. Get settled. Stay calm. Be ready.

  The last assault vehicle broke through the smoke cloud, headlight bright, moving fast, coming straight for him--or straight for where he had been, which was close enough. He could see someone beside the driver with what looked like a plain old-fashioned automatic rifle--which could be a lot more deadly than a self-ranging mortar in the current situation.

  The driver was swerving back and forth, trying to make the AV a harder target to hit, but he was already too close. Jamie couldn't have missed if he had wanted to. And Jamie very much wanted to score a hit.

  He fired, and nailed the AV, the penetrator smashing into the front power housing and exploding there, snapping the front axle. The AV's chassis crashed to the ground and the whole vehicle flipped over on its side. Jamie almost jammed the ammo selector by trying to flip to explosive while the defaulting system was still dropping back to standard rounds. It took him six seconds, not three or four, to make the switch, and another two to aim and fire the explosive round--and something less than a half second more to realize there had been no need to fire it at all. The AV was burning almost as brightly as the Lotus even before the explosive round hit. No one in it could possibly be alive. But then the exploder hit, and went up with a loud and useless bang--and there was barely an assault vehicle there at all.

  He set down his weapon, pushed himself up out of the approved position for prone shooting, and knelt on one knee for a minute, trying his hardest not to feel anything, not to think anything. Zahida's flat-truck was squealing out from behind the Lotus's funeral pyre, and came charging back in his general direction, slowing down to dodge the bits and pieces of burning wreckage that littered the area. A handlight came on and started sweeping through the darkness, looking for him.

  He scooped up his weapon, got to his feet, and called out, just making a noise, no words at all. The light turned toward him, spearing him in its bright beam. Behind its glare he could hear the sound of the flat-truck coming forward.

  "Yes," said Zahida. "Yes. You did it."

  Jamie said nothing, but simply climbed aboard and dropped himself into the truck bed. Hannah gave him a quick once-over, shining the light over him, satisfying herself that he hadn't been hit or injured. "All right," she said. "All right." She shut off the light, and Jamie could see her, though only as a shadow in the fire-rippled darkness. She turned to Zahida and spoke. "It's time to go," she said, and turned back to Jamie. "Thanks. You saved us." She turned to Zahida. "And so did you," she went on. "They would have hunted us down for sure if you hadn't gotten here first."

  "Their friends still might, if we much stay here," said Zahida, and started her flat-truck going again, rolling smoothly down the landing pad. "We must go. We reach the fence and cut it and be in the forest quick. Then I shall take you to some place safe and quiet."

  Safe and quiet, Jamie thought. That sounds like a nice change of pace. "Let's go," he said. "I'll like to get away from all this."

  Zahida said nothing, but turned back to her controls, speeding them all off into the sheltering darkness.

  FOURTEENREUNION

  Lantrall, Thelm of all Reqwar, sat in the rear seat of his ground vehicle and watched as his security agent examined the displays one last time. Then the agent checked the area personally with the use of an infrared scanner. He turned on his swivel chair and faced the Thelm--without standing. Others might make the foolish mistake of attempting to stand in the presence whilst in a closed low-roof ground vehicle. This agent did not. Protocol gave way to practicalities in matters of security, and attempting to stand in the car would have reduced his ability to protect the Thelm.

  . . . To protect the Thelm. It seemed as if everything else revolved around those words. There had been a time, or so the story went, when the Thelm of Reqwar had no need to worry about his own security. The people were happy, the High Thelek and all the other notables were united in support of their Thelm. There had been none who would wish the Thelm ill, let alone try to do him harm.

  In those days, if they had ever truly been, the Thelm had walked freely among his people without an escort of any kind. The present Thelm doubted most strongly that there had ever been such days--but even if there had been, they were long gone.

  "The area appears secure, my Thelm," the agent said.

  Ah, yes, Thelm Lantrall thought, but in these days, how many things are what they appear to be? "Very well," he said. "Then I shall go in."

  "I do not judge that wise, my Thelm," the agent said.

  "Your judgment is noted, and appreciated," the Thelm replied. "Nonetheless, I shall go in." He allowed himself a rare moment of levity--dark levity, perhaps, but a jest all the same. "After all, old friend, I go to visit my son. Is that not the one circumstance where it is thought improper for me to be protected?"

  "Very true, sir. But the situation is--unusual."

  The Thelm nodded sadly. "Yes," he said. "It is. And that is why I judge it as both safe and necessary that I pay this call." He gestured for the guard outside to open the door, and the guard did so.

  Thelm Lantrall stepped out into the fine, cool night. If he had listened to his guards, he would never venture outside Thelm's Keep--or, for that matter, would never leave his own quarters inside the Keep. But acceding to their wishes would make it impossible for him to govern.

  And, of course, such was the goal of certain elements in his security services: to make the Thelm a virtual prisoner of his protective detail, to prevent him from acting, to control whom he saw and what news he received. There were times when it seemed they were coming close to achieving that goal. But not now. Not tonight.

  Not all of his security people had been subverted. There were still many who could be trusted. The challenge came in ensuring that no security agent in the pocket of the High Thelek had a chance to report in soon enough to stop the Thelm from doing what he wished, on the grounds of "security."

  The Thelm had waited for a night when a particular team of security agents would be on duty in order to pay this visit--agents who weren't in the pay of the Thelek. The High Thelek would find out sooner or later, of course. But at least he would not find out soon enough to prevent the meeting.

  The Thelm walked forward, into the light--and there was light aplenty. The reports were that his host for the evening had searched all of the town before selecting an old sculpture gallery that was the available structure with the fullest view of the interior from the outside. He had then enhanced that view by illuminating the grounds and the exterior of the house in such a way as to keep the interior clearly visible as well. He wanted to be seen, and wanted everyone to know where he was.

  He had, by all accounts, succeeded in that. The local authorities had been obliged to erect an automated defense perimeter around the building to hold off the often-hostile crowds that formed during the day. After dark, no one was there except the hovering patrol robots left to watch by night.

  One advantage of the automated patrol system was that unlike flesh-and-blood guards, robots were never startled by the appearance of someone unexpected. The Thelm was, of course, on their basic list of authorized persons, and therefore was allowed to pass without comment.

  He ventured through the grounds and up to the entrance. He reached out to press the annunciator, and was not particularly surprised when the door slid open before he could do so. After all, if the idea was to allow anyone--including those hostile to the occupant--to see in, it was only to be expected that the occupant had been careful to arrange matters so he could see out.

  The figure that opened the door was, very briefly, in shadow. "Father Lantrall" said the familiar, oddly accented voice, "I am most pleased to see you. Please come in."

  The Thelm of all Reqwar did so, and stood to one side as his adopted--and sole surviving--son closed the door and turned to face him.

  Georg Hertzmann looked terrible, but that was to be expected. He had been through a great deal and had d
oubtless been getting less sleep than humans required. But appearance was one thing, and manners were another. Georg bowed in precisely the proper way, bending to exactly the proper angle, and straightened up. "I bid you welcome, my father, Thelm of all Reqwar," he said in his careful, nearly perfect Pavlavian.

  "I thank you, my son," said the Thelm. "It is good to see you. We have not been together since you, ah, tried to depart."

  "No, sir. I wished to come to you, but under the circumstances, it would have been neither wise nor possible for me to attempt it."

  "No, of course. I understand. And so, now, I come to you. I wish for us to speak together."

  Georg gestured to a room at the end of a corridor. "I am glad. I think we would be more comfortable through there, sir."

  "Thank you," said the Thelm, and led the way, as protocol required.

  If the room was "more" comfortable than the rest of the building, then that comfort was relative. The room was empty, but for a single, severe, straight-backed human chair, and a single Pavlat-style stool. It was obvious the room had once been some sort of gallery display space, and was walled almost entirely in glass. The room was brightly lit, so that the occupants would be plainly visible to anyone outside. That was, after all, the point, but nonetheless, it left the Thelm distinctly uncomfortable. An odd reaction, considering that the whole point of Georg's choosing to live there had been to make the Thelm feel safer.

  The Thelm set himself down on the stool and gestured toward the human chair. "Please," he said, "sit."

  Georg did so, and looked up at him intently. But protocol required that he speak no more, unless the Thelm spoke in a way that required an answer, and Georg had always been most careful about protocol. But there was, of course, a way around the rules. "I bid you speak, if you wish it, and say what you like," said the Thelm.

  "Father, I am sorry," Georg replied on the instant. It was clear the words had been at the ready within him, perhaps for a long time. "I have failed you, and caused you endless trouble."

  "Nonsense. It is we, our people, who have caused all the trouble, our own and yours as well. It is not only off-worlders who view some of our customs as misguided, even barbaric. And I should have been forethoughtful enough to see the looming danger. But when I took you as my adopted son, I intended none of this. I had three other sons by birth, all older than you. I did not foresee that all three would--would . . ."

  He stood up, unable to speak further, unable to sit still. Georg began to rise hurriedly, but the Thelm gestured for him to sit. "Please," he said. "Stay where you are. Don't go bouncing up and down simply because I wish to stand."

  Georg paused a moment, and then settled himself back down. "As you wish, sir," he said. The room was silent for a moment. "Sir, if I might speak further--"

  "Yes, yes, please! Speak! Talk to me! We might not have many more chances, you and I. Don't fuss about protocol. Not inside the family."

  The family. Lantrall was struck by a disturbing thought. His other sons gone, his wife long dead, the heiress-apparent some great-great-niece of his wife, completely under the thumbs of the High Thelek--aside from Georg Hertzmann, aside from this strange, quiet, brave, determined, well-meaning, intelligent, naive half boy half man--aside from this human--the Thelm realized that he had no real family at all.

  This odd alien, so close to a Pavlat in appearance and so different. The strange coloration and hair patterns, the unsettlingly mobile face muscles, the motionless ears, the unsightly and fragile knob of flesh they called a nose there in the center of the face, the hands with the lower thumbs missing, the feet each with one toe too many. And yet, this, this creature was his son, in every legal and moral sense of the word. And stranger still, he felt closer to Georg, more fully in the proper relation of father to son, than he had with any of his sons by birth.

  Georg hesitated, then spoke. "I--I only wished to express my sorrow at the loss of your three--three other sons. The aircar accident that took all their lives was a terrible tragedy."

  "It was idiotic," said the Thelm, sharply. "They should never have all gone on the same hunting trip, let alone in the same aircar, precisely because Irvtuk's show-off piloting could place us all in this intolerable situation, just as it has done. I know your human phrase, 'do not speak ill of the dead'--but the fact remains that the dead have done ill--very ill--by us. That aircar crash altered the fate of this entire world, in ways of which we cannot yet be sure. And yet, by all reports, all three of them behaved as if there was nothing at stake but their own lives."

  "Nonetheless, sir, I grieve."

  "Do you? You know as well I do that none of them liked you much, or approved of your adoption. Thought it was all some foolish bit of symbolism and nothing more." The Thelm surprised himself by talking so angrily, but then wondered why in the world he was so surprised. His three sons by birth had grown apart from him long ago, had come to view him as nothing more than a means to an end, a card to be played when the time was right--and that time had been coming soon when they died. That was the true reason he had made the grand and unexpected gesture of adopting an off-worlder, an alien. Georg Hertzmann did not see Thelm Lantrall as a useful tool, a valuable token that could be exchanged at a profit; but instead viewed him as a leader with the daring to waken his people and his world, to move them forward out of the slumberous shadows where they had been for far too long. Of all my sons, only Georg ever saw me as a father.

  "Whether or not they believed it was mere symbolism, Father, I know that was not the reason."

  "Of course not," said the Thelm. There was a moment's awkward silence. So many things they should speak of, and so many things that neither dared to say. But there were things, useful things, he could report. "I come with news. When you were first, ah, prevented from departing, I ordered that word be sent to your government. Far too late, I learned that, either by design or by incompetence, the message was translated and sent by a clerk who scarcely spoke Reqwar Pavlavian, let alone any form of English. It was badly garbled. Nonetheless, UniGov dispatched two agents of their Bureau of Special Investigations."

  "The BSI? But there's nothing here to investigate."

  "True enough. We did not ask for BSI agents. But that is what we were sent. And, I might add, it seems highly doubtful that the agents could possibly discern the actual reason they were summoned from the message."

  "Why were they?"

  "We wanted diplomatic witnesses to the execution," the Thelm said bluntly. "To see that all was carried out according to proper law and ritual, so that there could be no later complaint. And to negotiate the proper procedures and rituals for escorting, ah, the remains home, and to perform that escort duty. But, I am pleased to report, that is all beside the point. We did not ask for law-enforcement agents, but that is what we received--and, despite the best efforts of the High Thelek and his friends, they actually survived their landing at Thelmhome Spaceport."

  "It was a bad day for you--for us--when the High Thelek managed to claim the fealty of the spaceport," Georg said.

  "Agreed. But at least that little transaction forced him to tip his hand. We knew from then on to watch him--and knew from then on that he was watching us. But to return to the present issue, I have been advised that there is at least some chance that these agents, with a non-Pavlat viewpoint, might be able to find a way out of our problems."

  "Father Lantrall, with all due respect, I have an outside, non-Pavlat perspective, and a very strong incentive for finding a way out of all this--and I haven't come up with anything. I don't dare hope that someone else can find a way."

  "Point taken. But allow me the luxury of hoping on your behalf."

  "Yes, Father Lantrall. Of course. I meant no offense--but quite honestly, I do not see what magic answers they might bring."

  "We shall see. In the meantime--there is another matter. A thought that recent events brought to my mind. With all the protection and security provided to you, there was one safeguard that I failed to employ. I will empl
oy it now."

  The Thelm hesitated a moment, suddenly not sure how Georg would react--and just as suddenly realizing that how Georg reacted mattered a very great deal to him. He almost did not dare take the risk. But no. It was too late to go back. Besides, he felt quite urgently the fatherly impulse to protect his child, and he had no other way to do so. Even if the gesture was pointless, or even ghoulish, it was all he could offer.

  He reached up to his neck and lifted off a chain made of fine threads of specially treated silver, steel, and bronze, symbolizing beauty, strength, and wisdom woven together. The metal that gleams, the metal that shields, and the metal made by skill, craft, art, and experience.

  The pendant hanging from the chain was a stylized Pavlat hand, held open with both the inner and outer thumbs spread wide, in the traditional gesture of benevolent protection. The hand itself was carved from a piece of the hull metal from the first Pavlat ship to land on Reqwar.

  It was meant to be a far grander and more impressive Hand than the ones Zahida Halztec had convinced him to give to her. The cases were different in any event. Thelm Lantrall had granted to Zahida the authority to extend the Thelm's Hand. He had not placed Zahida herself under that protection.

  However much the Hand he now held was meant to impress, in plain cold fact it was a rather ugly little trinket. It was the weight of overblown symbolism, the provenance of the material from which the Hand itself was made, and the fact that it was given from the Thelm's flesh-and-bone hand that gave the object whatever value it had.

  No. That was not true. Not at all. The value it had was that it might save Georg's life. If it did that, if there was even the chance that it could do that, then it could be the most ugly, overblown, intrinsically worthless object on the planet, so far as the Thelm was concerned.

  He held the chain high over his head and spoke in a loud, clear voice that, somehow, was not as certain or as powerful or as confident as he intended.