Chapter Eight

The Pontiff didn’t look up when they dragged the woman into the room, just continued reading the reports on his desk. The two guards saluted and withdrew, leaving her lying where she’d fallen. The ancient grandfather clock against the wall tolled the passing seconds, its ticks the only sound outside the sibilance of her breath. The black wig was gone, and her red hair was matted and damp. She’d drawn herself into a fetal position, as if trying to hide from notice.

He let her lie there; he needed hope to spawn before he could break her entirely. He finished one report and put it aside before he began the next. The rustle of the parchment sent a quiver through her limbs, and she curled a little tighter.

Good.

She was ripening nicely. Two more reports should be enough. He concentrated on the parchment before him.

He finished the first report, pushed away and reached for the next, the sound triggering another quiver from the woman, this one deliberate. She was recovering nicely. This report would give her time.

The report finished, signed, and consigned for action by another of his sons, he leaned back in the chair, scanning the woman’s mind. “You failed me,” he said. “His ship sank and he drowned. The device was too powerful. There was no need for a rescue attempt, and my people let the other one escape.”

He felt the words penetrate Rachael’s pain; dragging her mind from its haven and making it work again.

The Pontiff’s men must be using the radios supplied by the Federation for him to know what was happening half a world away. That much of the plan had worked. The more they used them, the more they became dependent on the Federation. Jack’s ship would not have sunk unless it broke up on impact or he did it deliberately. The control device was set to operate at a low enough altitude for the ship to survive the impact. Therefore, Jack sank it deliberately. Self-immolation was not a characteristic of Alliance agents, so Jack was alive and still free. The Pontiff had not executed her, the normal penalty for failure. This made her pain a lesson, not a punishment. She would survive.

“You have nothing to say?”

She let a moan escape, keeping it low, full of pain and fear.

“Stop wasting my time. Answer or...” He left the threat unspoken.

Rachael needed time. “I’m sorry.”

His sigh was a gust of exasperation. “Guards.”

“Holy Father?” They’d been waiting outside the door, to respond so quickly.

“Give her another hour of your attention and return her to the temple.”

Parchment rustled as he placed another report before him. He felt Rachael start the disciplines that would divorce mind from body, clamping down on the exultation of having survived.

The Pontiff waited until the sound of the guards died in the distance and pushed the parchment away. The woman was interesting. Enough pain and the mind defenses slipped, letting him peek behind her shield. A lot of it was still garbled, but he could get the sense of it. He acknowledged the risk of dependency in using the radios, but unless he caught the Alliance agent on Trygon, his regime was doomed. A minor dependency was irrelevant.

If she was right and the pilot was also Alliance and had survived, the Treaty Port was his only avenue of escape. His colleagues would send him down the strands of the network toward it, making him an invaluable source of information to capture the other. He must not leave the planet, even if it meant snatching him from the Federation.

The Pontiff turned aside and made a note on his agenda for the next meeting with his cardinals. The task was theirs.

* * * *

Rachael lay on her couch fighting to block out the waves of pain. The Pontiff’s man had left no physical injuries, but every nerve screamed its outrage at what he’d done. Her mind training was inadequate to the task, and desperation made her focus on Jack.

Centuries of practice had made him a good lover, knowing and considerate, and she’d not regretted exceeding her instructions, justifying the lapse by using their relationship to foster the Federation’s aims. She was glad he survived and hoped he made it back to the Treaty Port. The more the Pontiff’s men could be encouraged to use Federation technology, the more dependent they became. It was a colonizing trick as old as civilization. Chasing down an elusive quarry like Jack would try their patience, making them more susceptible to the shortcuts the Federation needed them to use.

He’d have guessed by now what her part in the charade had been and be angry. She smiled. He’d promised her a spanking. If he survived, she’d most likely get it. His kind never gave way to hatred, even if it was galling that they treated Federation agents like children.

Until she joined the Federation, she’d never heard of the Alliance, or of the men and women who served its purpose. An odd legend or two existed, twisted out of all recognition, but no one believed there were immortals living amongst them, descendants of a race isolated to a minor planet in the furthest reach of the galaxy. It was too uncomfortable. Her first reaction had been horror, followed quickly by jealousy, but then she’d met the first of them during an operation and had been saved by her when the plan gone wrong.

Anneke lost a friend in the debacle, but bore no grudge against the Federation for their ineptitude. “They’re so terribly young,” she said as she led Rachael to safety. They’d talked for a great deal during the journey, an education in the way the Alliance saw reality, and Rachael said goodbye with a sense of loss when Anneke walked away between two guards. She wasn’t surprised when she heard she’d escaped. It had looked like Anneke was leading the guards rather than them escorting her.

Jack was like her in that sense, carrying himself with an unconscious air of self-worth that escaped arrogance. Her only glimpse of how dangerous he might be came in the restaurant with his physical reaction to her attempt to hit him. The somersault into a fighting stance had been instantaneous, and he’d radiated menace until he recognized her.

Oddly, she felt safe with him. Her body stirred at the memory of his lovemaking, and she surrendered to its power.

The pain receded more quickly.

* * * *

Jack was clear of the island, sailing south in the general direction of the Treaty Port. The boat was good, the rig balanced, needing only a touch of weather helm, and he was enjoying himself, sailing away from the immediate danger of capture. He’d study the map in daylight, then dispose of it and depend on his memory.

The Pontiff had failed—unless Jack fell into his hands. The deep cover agent would have his own escape planned. It was a pity Peter still kept the pact made with Feodar. Translocation would make things so much simpler, but even Limbo was out of bounds to him.

Daylight saw Jack on the open sea, no land in sight. There was no pole star for this planet, and the orbits of its two satellite moons were so eccentric they were useless for navigation. He had no compass either, and this made navigation a hit and miss affair. He’d studied the chart supplied with the boat at first light and hoped it was accurate, but he needed some way of determining his heading at night before he went further, particularly with the sun near its southern limit lengthening the nights in this hemisphere.

He sailed southward all day, rationing himself to a single sip of water when night fell. His thirst was still manageable. The short tropical twilight gave him time to drop the sail. He unshipped the mast to reduce his profile, rigged a bight of rope from one side of the bow to the other as a makeshift sea anchor, and crawled under the half-deck to sleep.

It was going to be a long voyage.

The dawn found him awake, the mast rigged, the sail hoisted, and the boat running south before a stiff breeze. Apart from another single mouthful of water, rolled around his mouth until it disappeared, he didn’t touch any of the food left in the boat by his rescuer. He’d eaten well in the restaurant and could afford to go without food for a while. The water situation was more serious, and he must conserve it from the beginning.

This was the boat’s best point of sailing and he used his leisure to transfer details from the map to the wooden thwart beside him using the point of the knife found with the food. He disguised them in the outline of a woman’s face, oddly like Rachael’s, creating a mnemonic of the map rather than a copy. He must trust his undercover friend to have left nothing else incriminating in the boat beyond the map. The job done, he studied the map one last time, checking everything against his markings, and then cut the parchment into small strips and ate them. He could afford no waste, and there was protein in the sheet.

The first island showed on the southwestern horizon at sunset, a glimpse of a mountain peak catching the slanting rays of the sun when the boat lifted to the top of the swell. According to his map, it was inhabited and dangerous. His first landing lay beyond it, on the northern fringe of a broad expanse of ocean he must cross. A small island rarely visited, the map showed it as a rookery for sea birds. He could make his preparations for the longer voyage and observe the night sky.

Navigation at night was a problem he must solve.

* * * *

The Pontiff was angry. His ancestors should have wiped out the Elite generations ago. They caused trouble wherever they went, and this one was the worst of all. Sneaky, his mind unreadable, he never opposed directly and was all the more dangerous because of it. The Pontiff had suspected an Alliance agent, but his bloodline was impeccable, reaching back unbroken to the Abandonment and Feodar’s arrival for the establishment of the Pontificate.

Feodar had been a strange individual, even for a Pontiff. He’d been extraordinarily long-lived, some seven hundred years according to the Great Book. Many of his entries meandered, made meaningless by their references to a time beyond the Abandonment and geography bearing no resemblance to reality, and concerned a mysterious covenant made with the Soldier. The advent of the off-worlders suggested he’d been writing about another planet entirely, but archeology proved the occupation of this planet for centuries before the Abandonment. A puzzle, but not important. The Pontiff shrugged and turned back to the matter at hand.

Conveniently, the pilot had stolen a boat. His execution was now a matter of law as well as expedience. A public auto-da-fe always had a salutary effect, particularly with an Elite as the star. If he detected any attachment in the man, he’d add the girl too. A few histrionics always pleased the crowd.

“Holy Father.”

The Pontiff looked up at the interruption. “Yes?”

“We’ve found no trace of the pilot or the boat.” The Cardinal seemed nervous. Reporting failure sat poorly, even if it was to his father.

The Pontiff sighed. Each generation weakened the bloodline. Soon they would be as other men and the pontificate would fall into the dust of centuries past and yet to come. He’d tried many wives, sired many sons, and this one was the best of the batch. Hardly a comforting thought.

“Good.” He nodded and prepared himself for yet another explanation of his plan. Repetition might work eventually.

* * * *

Jack slept badly, dreaming the boat drifted too close to the shore during the hours of darkness and fishermen had discovered him with the sunrise. He woke before the first fingers of light appeared in the east, and had the mast rigged ready to hoist the sail when the island peak caught the first rays of light. He waited impatiently and, when it did, his breath rushed out through his mouth in a gusty sigh of relief. He’d hardly moved during the night. The wind had remained constant, and the sea anchor had held him in place.

The sail hoisted, he set a course to the east, aiming to keep the mountain peak just in sight as he bypassed the island. Only the most intrepid islanders would venture this far from land.

It took two days to round the main island and reach his target. It was a wild place. Steep cliffs plunged deep into an angry ocean that ringed the southern half while the sheltered northern shore was only a little better. He had to spend another night at sea before he dared approach. The main beach he ignored. It was too obvious. Anyone coming to the island would land there. His persistence gained its reward close to dusk. A small inlet, just short of the eastern tip, looked fearsome from a distance but concealed a tiny beach tucked behind a jutting rock promontory.

The wind had dropped with the sun, and he approached with the oars, gauging the tide. It still flowed, but close to its peak and there was no excuse not to try. A moment to check the lashings to secure every loose object and he was committed, choosing the last of a set of waves to surf his way up the inlet. It was a wild ride, and he thought he’d left it too late when the beach came abeam, but the sea gods smiled and the boat pivoted tightly and rode the wave onto the beach. He sprang out with the anchor rope, took two turns around a convenient rock, and held it there, gaining inches with each wave surge until the tide peaked and started to recede.

Still not content, he rigged a Spanish windlass with multiple turns of rope and eased the boat higher, warping it inch by inch until the transom was above the high tide mark. Nor did he rest then, draping the nets over the boat and covering them with branches until it looked like a bush growing close to the high tide mark. He intended to be here for days.

Morning found him stiff and sore, but rested from eight hours sleep under the half deck cushioned by the sail packed with grasses. It felt strange not to be moving, and he staggered a bit when he stood.

Fresh water proved no problem. A spring-fed trickle led down to a rock pool above the main beach, and there were enough eggs to satisfy his immediate hunger. He’d experiment with the young birds later. An observation post to watch the night sky was next, and a crag summit gave him a 360-degree view and a flat area to set up his observatory.

A stick in the center and a circle scribed using a piece of rope looped over it was the first move. He could mark sunrise and sunset to determine the north-south line and then plot the movements of the stars relative to this line. It would take time to get it right, but time was his ally. He had no schedule to keep, and the hunt might die down a little if he laid low. The family would know by his non-appearance that he was in trouble, even if they did nothing about it.

* * * *

“Jack’s missing.” Anneke turned to face her brother. “What’s his mission?”

“Feodar’s World needs a nudge in the right direction. The current pontiff has exhausted the blood line, and Peter thinks it’s time for him to go,” Karrel said.

“Why use Jack? It won’t please Dael. He’s done his sixty missions and Gabrielle wants her son back.”

“So do I,” Karrel said, giving her a sidewise smile. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?” Anneke’s tone sounded dangerous.

Karrel nodded. “Your fault.”

“Explain, brother, or I’ll do something quite nasty to your anatomy.”

“You came back raving about this Rachael and caught Peter’s attention. He’s quite taken with her.”

“He’s a bit old to be playing Cupid. What does Gabrielle think?”

“She would have preferred it wasn’t Feodar’s world,” Karrel said somberly. “She was present when Peter made the pact.”

Anneke shook her head at their father’s stubborn nature. “We’re still bound by it?” He’d promised Feodar not to use his special powers on the world the Hive Master had claimed to free Gabrielle and considered himself and the whole Alliance bound by it. “He wouldn’t hold back if one of us were in danger?”

“You know Peter. What do you think?”

Anneke fell silent, considering the unusual man who’d fathered them both. He didn’t invite facile judgment. “I don’t know him as well as you do,” she said. “You’ve shared his time as a soldier.”

“Think yourself lucky you haven’t.” Karrel’s mind closed off an emerging memory. “We only had glimpses of a dream about a battle in some place called, Normandy, but it has never left me entirely. The things he’s seen and done put him beyond our judgment.”

“I’ll ask him.”

Peter appeared at their side. “Ask me what?”

Two hundred years had made little difference to his appearance. He and Karrel looked of an age, as did Dael and Gabrielle, who joined Anneke at the beach camp table. Anneke guessed Peter had summoned the others when he sensed a family conference was brewing.

“Would you let your promise to Feodar get in the way if Jack were at risk?” she asked.

“Jack is the best trained operative we have for the job. Torred and Jesse taught him seamanship.” Peter glanced across the water to the small cluster of graves halfway up the sand hill, in an area leveled by hand and carefully tended by all of them. It held the graves of all the commoners who’d grown close to the Alliance, Torred, Samara, and Jesse—Anneke’s lifelong friend and husband of eighty years, a bitter reminder of the folly of loving a commoner. “He’s doing a job no other could. I expect him to succeed.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Peter stood quite still, his expression and his mind closed. “No.”

“Are you going to?” Anneke stepped a little closer.

“I intend avoiding the circumstances that would require an answer.” Peter’s tone sounded flat. “Feodar wanted a guarantee for his descendants. My plan honors the spirit of my promise as well as the letter.”

“If it fails?”

“I’ll make a new plan.”

Anneke stared at her father’s face, willing him to continue, but knowing he wouldn’t. The others were no help, content to trust Peter’s judgment. She couldn’t abdicate that much responsibility, even to Peter.

Karrel’s hand on her shoulder turned her away. “Leave it little sister. He knows what he’s doing...and so will you when the time’s right. Jack can look after himself and wouldn’t thank you for interfering. Neither will we.” She heard iron in her brother’s thoughts. He was his father’s son.

“You’re worried.”

“Of course. So’s Gabrielle, but Jack’s a man now.” Karrel always allowed her more license than the others and this made his warning absolute. She mustn’t interfere, even if it was hard.

* * * *

“Damn.” The thirtieth day since he left the rookery had begun badly.

The clay beaker had tipped over, spilling the tiny trickle that remained of his water ration for the day. He’d been saving it for the dawn. He glanced at the small keg containing the rest of his water, tempting himself, but looked away again. He didn’t know how far beyond the southern horizon the land lay. Not being able to sail by day made it difficult, but he was too close to the trading routes now. One look would tell them he was no local, and boat stealing was a capital crime here, with unpleasant methods of execution.

He’d been lucky so far, but the sun had lightened the eastern horizon. It was time to go into daylight mode before some eager lookout spotted the sail.

He let the boat come up into the wind and dropped the weathered lugsail, stowing it under the half deck. Another five minutes to unship the stumpy mast and lash it to the deck and then five more to drape the nets over the boat, destroying its outline, and he was ready for the day. A trading schooner would have to come close before they recognized what they saw. It was too rough to flood the boat enough to lower its profile, so he’d spend a dry day for a change.

His chances of reaching the Treaty Port undetected were slim, but there was no point worrying. He needed sleep. He folded the sail into a bed, laid down, and fell asleep within minutes.

The water sloshing around in the boat woke him in the late afternoon. The weather had turned nasty, the wind shifting foul, carrying him east and into the main trading route. A heavy ocean swell signaled the existence of another storm beyond the northern horizon, similar to the one that had almost taken his life a week ago.

“Damn.” He allowed himself only this one word, because it was too easy to fall into meaningless profanity in the stress of a mission.

The horizon was clear, so he had choices. Raise the sail and run across the trade route, hoping to avoid anyone he spotted, or point this unwieldy tub as high into the wind as she’d go and hope the leeway didn’t carry him east, or ship the oars and row all night. None was attractive, but which one was the safest?

A higher swell lifted the boat, and he glimpsed the spike of a mast to the southeast. He had no choice. The oars it was. The schooner could be heading for the western archipelago, which would bring it dangerously close. He bent his back, pulling lustily.

An hour later, things grew worse. There was a black and white pennant streaming from the mast. The schooner belonged to the Pontiff.

A glance over his shoulder at the sun told him there was at least another hour before the short tropical twilight. The schooner would be on him well before dark. They hadn’t seen him yet, still holding their course. He’d play the game out to the end, but there’d be no mercy if he failed.

He lashed the useless oars to the thwart and pulled out the bung in the bottom of the boat. He had one more trick to play. The water flooded in and he helped it, bucketing more over the stern so the boat sank perceptibly until the waves were slopping over the transom. One last check to make sure he’d lashed everything in place, then he replaced the bung as the boat slid down into the bottom of a trough between two swells and used his full weight to drive the transom beneath the surface.

The water poured in, the bow rose, and the boat slid backwards under the water until the air trapped under the half deck stopped it. He dove deep, grasped the transom, and taking advantage of the slope of the approaching wave, tipped the boat end for end so it lay like a half submerged rock, supported by the air trapped under the hull. There was just time to cover the hull with the net and lash it in place before the masthead of the schooner appeared over the top of a distant swell and remained visible. He covered his head with a fold of netting and waited.

He only needed a bit of luck and a slack lookout.

* * * *

Rachael knew he was still free. The days became weeks since she’d found herself a prisoner in the temple, her attempts to leave blocked. The Federation would do nothing to help, so she stayed, waiting for his capture to release her—or sign her death warrant. It was galling, being dependent, and the Pontiff terrified her with his veiled threats.

“No guests for you today,” the priest said smugly. “You’re the only one again. The other girls are all busy.”

It was no accident. The Pontiff controlled the release of tokens. He was holding her incommunicado.

“I’ll walk in the gardens,” she said, pushing the limits of her confinement.

“Of course,” the priest agreed. “The guards will ensure you are not disturbed.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be glad of their company.” She’d give him no pleasure. “They can wait outside till I’m ready.” Turning away and strolling back inside was a hollow victory, but she felt grateful for it.

No temple gown, no wig, a simple linen shift and a wide shady hat were the outfit she chose, and the garden welcomed her. The freshly turned earth smelled good, and the flowers assailed her with perfumes she’d ignored in the past. Even the crunch of the guards’ sandals on the gravel paths sounded crisp and fresh.

The Pontiff watched, sensing her mood and smiling. The spacer was better than he’d expected, drawing more and more resources to the search, but his capture was inevitable. They’d found his eyrie on the island and deduced its purpose. He was navigating his way back to the Treaty Port, and the search was concentrating on the approaches. No boat would slip through the net. He was doomed.

“Holy Father,” one of his scribes said.

“Yes.”

“They’ve found his boat, capsized and abandoned. The sailing master thinks it done deliberately, the hull draped with nets to hide it. They searched the area until darkness, but found nothing.”

“It was not one of the schooners with the communication device?”

“No. It reported via coast station,” the scribe said. “The sailing master brought it close enough to report by semaphore, and they passed the message here.”

The Pontiff was not convinced. “Mobilize a full search of the area, calling in all reserves. Signal the sailing master to stand off into deep water and search the vessel thoroughly.”

“Already done, Holy Father. I anticipated your needs.” The scribe, Lothar, smiled.

The Pontiff studied the tonsured lackey. He’d shown unusual foresight. “Your bloodline?” he demanded.

“A fourth removed from your predecessor, Holy Father.” The tonsured head bowed without humility.

This might be a way of strengthening the bloodline. “Sisters?”

“Three, Holy Father.”

“Bring them to the palace the day after tomorrow.”

“Two are wed, Holy Father.” The man was uncomfortable in providing obstacles to what he sensed the Pontiff intended.

“Bring them all.”

“Of course, Holy Father.” He bowed low and backed away.

“Wait. Show me on the map where the boat was found and where the schooner reported.”

The scribe scurried across to the wall map and indicated both locations with a long pointer.

“He’s done well.” The admission carried a grudging admiration and triggered a sharp glance from the scribe. “Within a hundred miles of his goal and through two rings of searchers. What will he do next?”

“Surely, he’s dead,” the scribe ventured, apparently surprised into comment.

“Bring me his body and I’ll believe it. Until then we focus on these areas.” The pontiff took the pointer and described two arcs protecting the Treaty Port. “Have the Federation officials attend me the day after tomorrow.” He sensed the man’s disappointment and added, “...immediately after your sisters.”