Deeth waited till the woman was a step away, swinging her knife.
He blocked the blow, stepped inside, sank his own blade into her
chest. She clawed at his face as she went down.
He stood over her, watching her die. His stroke had been the
only one he had struck himself. This was the first death he had
dealt personally since he had killed the old man in the cave.
He felt no special satisfaction or joy. He felt almost nothing.
The lack surprised him for only an instant. He never had been
enthusiastic about fulfilling his father’s plans.
What now? The Norbon revenge was nearly complete. The debt was
almost paid. The final act, under Michael’s direction, was
beyond his participation. There was nothing left but to evade the
fleet now passing the Fortress, pursuing his raidships.
Nothing remained but the mundanity of Norbon directorship. A
huge loathing welled up within him. He never had wanted to be Head.
He no longer needed the position’s power. And without Rhafu,
feeling the way he felt now, he might not be able to hold on.
He stalked through the Fortress of Iron, a thoughtful specter
silently prowling a tomb. He paused in Storm’s study, slowly
poked through his enemy’s effects. He began to feel a sense
of spiritual kinship, to scent out a kindred loneliness. The man
was not entirely alien. He was as much out of tune with humanity as
his enemy was with his own people.
He found several undamaged, space-ready singleships on the
shiplock level. He considered them. They were slow, but could
travel almost indefinitely, seizing their power from the binding
energy of the universe itself. A man who had the time could ride
one forever.
Deeth summoned his remaining raidmaster, gave him a letter for
his cousin Taake. It assigned Taake the duties of Head till his own
return. The raidmaster glanced at it. “Where will you be,
sir?”
“I’m going to make a pilgrimage.”
“Sir?”
Deeth waved him away. “Go. Go on. Get out before they send
someone back to check this place out.”
Still not sure what he would do, Deeth boarded the ship he had
chosen. It was a fat, slow vessel that had done small-time raven
work. It carried both medicare cradles and cryobiological storage
units. But no instel. Even the Legion had been unable to afford
instel for all its ships.
The raidmaster spaced. Deeth spent more hours wandering the
ruins of his enemy’s home, wondering, at times, if Boris
Storm and Thaddeus Walters had done the same after silencing the
Norbon station. He finally took space himself, cutting a hyper arc
for the center of the galaxy. He had no intention of going that
far, only of running along till he had come to some understanding
with and of himself.
His course sloped through the Centerward March of Ulant. He
dropped hyper long enough to gather news of what had happened on
Blackworld.
He could not be sure. It sounded like he had failed.
Without Rhafu there to push him he could not care. It no longer
seemed to matter.
He apologized to his father’s ghost, set his drives on
auto, sealed himself into a cryo storage unit.
Someday the drive would fail and he would fall into normspace.
Then he would waken and look out at a whole new
universe . . . Or the ship might plow through
the heart of a sun, where the field stresses were so great they
would yank the vessel out of hyper.
Or . . .
He did not care.
Staying alive did not much matter either.
Deeth waited till the woman was a step away, swinging her knife.
He blocked the blow, stepped inside, sank his own blade into her
chest. She clawed at his face as she went down.
He stood over her, watching her die. His stroke had been the
only one he had struck himself. This was the first death he had
dealt personally since he had killed the old man in the cave.
He felt no special satisfaction or joy. He felt almost nothing.
The lack surprised him for only an instant. He never had been
enthusiastic about fulfilling his father’s plans.
What now? The Norbon revenge was nearly complete. The debt was
almost paid. The final act, under Michael’s direction, was
beyond his participation. There was nothing left but to evade the
fleet now passing the Fortress, pursuing his raidships.
Nothing remained but the mundanity of Norbon directorship. A
huge loathing welled up within him. He never had wanted to be Head.
He no longer needed the position’s power. And without Rhafu,
feeling the way he felt now, he might not be able to hold on.
He stalked through the Fortress of Iron, a thoughtful specter
silently prowling a tomb. He paused in Storm’s study, slowly
poked through his enemy’s effects. He began to feel a sense
of spiritual kinship, to scent out a kindred loneliness. The man
was not entirely alien. He was as much out of tune with humanity as
his enemy was with his own people.
He found several undamaged, space-ready singleships on the
shiplock level. He considered them. They were slow, but could
travel almost indefinitely, seizing their power from the binding
energy of the universe itself. A man who had the time could ride
one forever.
Deeth summoned his remaining raidmaster, gave him a letter for
his cousin Taake. It assigned Taake the duties of Head till his own
return. The raidmaster glanced at it. “Where will you be,
sir?”
“I’m going to make a pilgrimage.”
“Sir?”
Deeth waved him away. “Go. Go on. Get out before they send
someone back to check this place out.”
Still not sure what he would do, Deeth boarded the ship he had
chosen. It was a fat, slow vessel that had done small-time raven
work. It carried both medicare cradles and cryobiological storage
units. But no instel. Even the Legion had been unable to afford
instel for all its ships.
The raidmaster spaced. Deeth spent more hours wandering the
ruins of his enemy’s home, wondering, at times, if Boris
Storm and Thaddeus Walters had done the same after silencing the
Norbon station. He finally took space himself, cutting a hyper arc
for the center of the galaxy. He had no intention of going that
far, only of running along till he had come to some understanding
with and of himself.
His course sloped through the Centerward March of Ulant. He
dropped hyper long enough to gather news of what had happened on
Blackworld.
He could not be sure. It sounded like he had failed.
Without Rhafu there to push him he could not care. It no longer
seemed to matter.
He apologized to his father’s ghost, set his drives on
auto, sealed himself into a cryo storage unit.
Someday the drive would fail and he would fall into normspace.
Then he would waken and look out at a whole new
universe . . . Or the ship might plow through
the heart of a sun, where the field stresses were so great they
would yank the vessel out of hyper.
Or . . .
He did not care.
Staying alive did not much matter either.