Debra Doyle & James MacDonald - Mageworlds 01 - The Price of the Stars

Prologue

Night had come to Waycross on Innish-Kyl. Night, but not darkness or quiet. Bursts of loud talk

and raucous music spilled out through open doorways, and the low thrumming of heavy machinery never

stopped. Beka Rosselin-Metadi-tall and thin, with pale yellow hair tied back from a face too sharply

planed for prettiness-strode through the crowded spaceport with a starpilot’s fine disregard for the

dirtside locals. The locals, in turn, took note of her purposeful air, and of her heavy war-surplus blaster in

its worn leather holster, and let her pass.

In fact, Beka had no goal besides a cool drink and a few hours away from the ship. Claw Hard

had been in hyperspace for two months on this latest run, plenty of time for Beka to grow tired of both

the freighter and her crew. This stop at Waycross was Beka’s first chance to get off-ship since Cashel;

the layover at Raffa, the only other port on this run, had been too brief to allow the crew members any

liberty.

Osa’s probably afraid he’ll lose the whole lot of us if he lets us out on the town, she

decided as she stepped through the door of the Blue Sun Cantina. If her own duties as copilot/navigator

hadn’t ended when Claw Hard settled into the docking bay, she wouldn’t be here either-she’d be

off-loading and on-loading cargo with the rest of the freighter’s crew. But except for Osa himself she had

the only deep-space pilot’s license on board, and Claw Hard’s captain was getting too fat and lazy to

do his own ship handling.

Beka smiled thinly to herself. If Osa wants to keep his copilot, she thought, he can damn well

let me off the ship for a couple of hours.

The door slid shut behind her, and she made her way through the crowd to the bar. The regulars

at the Blue Sun weren’t exactly the sort of people Beka had grown up with. Innish-Kyl was a frontier

planet near the Mageworlds border zone, and Waycross had started out as a privateers’ port during the

worst years of the late war. Most of the cantina’s patrons probably hadn’t seen a respectable woman

more than once or twice in their lives, and wouldn’t know what to say to one if she showed up.

Luckily, Beka’s much-mended coverall and worn leather boots-and the blaster-were enough to

spare her the burden of respectability in this crowd. She found a place at the bar and pulled a ten-credit

chit out of her pocket.

“Beer,” she said in Galcenian. “Whatever you have on tap.”

The bartender looked at her without speaking.

Beka sighed. I wonder if it’s my accent. She didn’t suppose the Blue Sun got many customers

who spoke the universal tongue of the spacelanes as it sounded on the Mother of Worlds-but even seven

years away from Galcen hadn’t been enough to wipe all traces of home from Beka’s voice.

It never fails, she thought with resignation. A few hours without sleep, and I start talking like

I’m just out of finishing school. Oh, well. Try again.

“Beer,” she said, enunciating clearly. “Tap.”

The bartender blinked. “Yes, Domina.”

Oh, damn. It wasn’t the accent.

Beka exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. It wasn’t the bartender’s fault that random genetic

factors had made her into a taller, thinner, plainer version of the civilized galaxy’s most famous

stateswoman. But what anybody could think Mother was doing in a place like this-or maybe they

haven’t forgotten that she did come to Waycross once, when she needed the kind of help that no

other place could give.

She drew a long breath. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not the Domina. I’m not even a gentle

lady. I’m a thirsty starpilot, and I’d like some brew.”

The bartender gave her another strange look, then shrugged and turned away. He drew a mug of

beer from the console behind the bar and slid the mug across the counter without speaking. Beka

reached out to pick it up, but before her fingers reached the frosted glass she felt a touch on her shoulder.

She whirled, dropping her hand to the grip of the blaster. Then she saw who stood there-a slight,

dark-haired man in dusty black, a plain wooden staff slung across his back on a leather thong. Her blue

eyes widened with recognition, and she let her hand relax.

“Master Ransome,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” the man answered. “You’re wanted down at the docking bays.”

Beka raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I can’t see the Master of the Adepts’ Guild running errands

for the likes of Captain Osa.”

“I’m not,” Ransome said. “Your father is here.”

So you’re running errands for Dadda instead . . . which means Mother has to be mixed up

in this somehow. Beka felt the old, familiar anger stir to life at the thought. Seven years. It’s been seven

years, and she still thinks I’m going to change my mind and come home. Or maybe Master

Ransome is supposed to drag me back to Galcen whether I want to go or not.

She gave the Adept a wary look. “I thought the Space Force stayed away from Innish-Kyl.”

“The Space Force has nothing to do with it. Warhammer is in docking bay sixty-two-D.”

Beka took a long, deep drink from her mug. So her father had finally brought his old ship back to

the port that had made her famous. After all the times I asked him to take me to Waycross, back

when I was a kid, and he said no, he didn’t want to see the place again . . . and now he’s here.

She set down the beer and pushed herself away from the bar. “All right,” she said. “I can take a

hint. Let’s go.”

She followed the Adept through the crowded room and out onto the street. The rest of the Blue

Sun’s customers drew aside to let them pass-not out of any regard for her, she knew, but out of

well-founded respect for anyone who carried an Adept’s staff.

For centuries the galaxy’s Adepts had kept to themselves, living apart from those who distrusted

their power to sense and manipulate the patterns of the universe. Then strange, wing-shaped scoutships

began appearing above the outplanets. A few years later the raiding parties followed, first on the frontier

and then in the heart of the galaxy itself. And in the opening skirmishes of what became the Magewar, the

once-distrusted Adepts became humanity’s chief defenders against the power of the Mageworlds.

Now Beka Rosselin-Metadi glanced over at Master Ransome as they walked through

Waycross’s narrow streets. “Mother’s up to something,” she said, “and I don’t like it. Are you going to

tell me what’s going on, or not?”

Ransome shook his head. “The docking bay isn’t far.”

She bit her lip and said nothing. A few minutes later they reached the low-walled, roofless

enclosure where Warhammer’s flattened disk shape loomed against the white glow of the dock lights.

Beka paused in the entrance to the bay.

“Damn, but she’s still a pretty ship,” she said, more to herself than to her companion. “Makes

Claw Hard look like a flying rock. Did Dadda bring her in alone?”

“Not quite,” said Ransome. “I was copilot.”

“Just like old times,” said Beka, as they crossed the open bay toward the ship. In her fighting

days, the ’Hammer had carried a full crew: pilot, copilot, engineer, and a pair of gunners. But Jos Metadi

had flown Warhammer solo after the long conflict had ended, and had taught all three of his children to

do the same.

Beka smiled a little in spite of herself. Ari and Owen never loved it like I did, though-and I

could fly rings around them both from the moment I was old enough to start learning. The smile

faded as quickly as it had come. I wonder if Dadda would have taught me, if he’d known what I was

going to do with all those lessons?

She hesitated at the foot of the lowered ramp, and looked at her father’s onetime copilot and

oldest friend.

“Master Ransome, can you tell me what he wants?”

The Adept shook his head. In the shadow of Warhammer’s bulk, she couldn’t make out his

expression. She shrugged, and went on up the ramp.

The ship’s door was open, and the faint glow of a force field stretched across the gap. Master

Ransome reached out one hand toward it, and the light faded. He gestured at her to go ahead. She

stepped through with Master Ransome following a staff-length behind. The air brightened again behind

them.

Beka made her way forward to the ’Hammer’s dimly lit common room. A lean, dark-clad figure

half-lounged in a chair at the mess table: Jos Metadi, once captain of the privateer ship Warhammer,

now Commanding General of the Republic’s Space Force. Marriage to Perada Rosselin had given him

the rank-in the old days before the Magewar, “General of the Armies” had been one of the honorifics

granted by custom to the consort of the Domina of Entibor-but Metadi’s own formidable talents had

made the courtesy title into a powerful reality.

His chair spun round as the first footstep sounded on the common-room floor, and a small but

deadly blaster appeared in the General’s hand. After a moment the blaster disappeared again into its

hidden grav-clip up Metadi’s sleeve.

“Sorry,” he said. “Old habits die hard.”

Beka nodded, unsurprised. Innish-Kyl had that effect on people. She’d almost gone for her

blaster herself back in the cantina, and she was nothing like the old hand that her father was. Behind her,

she heard Errec Ransome half-laugh.

“You could get a bodyguard from the Guild any time you wanted,” the Adept said. “Will you

take one?”

“I’ll take a bodyguard when I run into somebody who’s even fonder of keeping my hide in one

piece than I am,” Metadi said. “And I don’t mink the creature exists.” He turned back to Beka. “Sit

down, girl. We have to talk.”

Beka took a chair on the other side of the mess table and braced herself for a struggle. She

hadn’t written or spoken to anyone on Galcen-except, once in a great while, to her brother Owen-since

that last, bitter quarrel the night she left home. She wondered what twist in galactic politics had convinced

the Domina to send for the family’s runaway daughter.

It must really be bad, she thought. The realization stiffened her resolve. If Mother wants me to

come back again, she’s going to have to take me on my own terms, not hers.

There was a long pause. Finally her father said, “You look like you’ve done well enough for

yourself.”

“I’m piloting for Frizzt Osa on Claw Hard,” she said. “The ship’s a pile of junk, and Osa’s a

bastard, but it’s a job.”

Metadi nodded. There was another pause. Finally Beka said, “I never expected to see you

here.”

“I never expected to come back,” said the General. “The town’s gone downhill since the old

days-the Magelords turned Entibor into an orbiting slag heap, but that’s nothing next to what peace and

prosperity can do to a place.” He gave Beka an appraising look. “That blaster you’ve got-are you willing

to use it?”

“I already have once,” she said.

“Good,” said Metadi.

Once again, conversation lapsed. Warhammer’s environmental systems kept up their low,

almost subliminal hum. Beka looked from her father to Master Ransome, who had made himself

inconspicuous after an Adept’s fashion, leaning against the wall in a shadowed corner.

The Adept’s face was hidden, and her father’s was unreadable. Neither man seemed ready to

break the silence. She drew a deep breath.

“How did you know I was going to be in Waycross tonight?”

The answer came quickly. It wasn’t, she thought, the question they’d been expecting.

“Owen told us you were on Claw Hard,” Master Ransome said. “Learning your next port of call

wasn’t hard after that.”

“Owen,” said Beka slowly. She’d kept in touch, over the years, with the younger of her two

brothers, certain that the ally and co-conspirator of her childhood would never betray any secret she

confided to him. If he’d come out with her ship’s name of his own accord . . .

“Whatever Mother needs me for has got to be more than just family politics. Now, is somebody

going to tell me about it, or are we going to sit here and make small talk until I have to get back to Claw

Hard for lift-off?”

Her father looked at Master Ransome.

The Adept sighed, and came over to take a seat at the table. He glanced down for a moment at

the tabletop, rubbing his finger lightly over decades-old scratch marks in the grey plastic, and then lifted

his head again. “The Domina of Entibor is dead.”

For a moment, the words meant nothing. Then Beka heard a voice that had to be hers, although

she didn’t recognize it.

“So that’s what the bartender meant. Mother is dead-and I’m the Domina now.”

Errec Ransome’s dark eyes were somber. “Yes, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically-the reflex of years. Inside her head, the old, old

argument played on: Mother is “my lady,” not me . . . I’m going to be a star-pilot, one of the best,

not just some kind of political figurehead . . . and someday I’m going to run so far away from

Galcen that nobody will care who I am.

Under the cover of the tabletop, her fists clenched so tightly that the nails, even trimmed short for

handling a starship’s controls, bit deep into her palm. She hadn’t cried in public since she was twelve,

and she was damned if she was going to start now. She pressed her lips together until they stopped

trembling, and then turned to her father.

“When-how-did it happen?”

More silence. “Tell her, Errec,” her father said.

After another long pause, the Master of the Adepts’ Guild began to speak. “There was a debate

in the Grand Council,” he said. “Hearings, on the expulsion of Suivi Point. The Domina . . . your mother .

. . was against expulsion.”

Beka nodded. Suivi Point had been a blot on the Republic’s honor for longer than she’d been

alive; this wasn’t the first time the wide-open asteroid spaceport had come near expulsion from the

community of worlds. She remembered a family dinner, long ago on Galcen, and her mother saying to

somebody-had it been Councillor Tarveet of Pleyver?-“Suivi’s a disgrace, I’ll grant you that. But if the

Suivans leave the Republic, there’ll be no way left to control them short of open warfare. And gentlesir,

I’ve seen enough of war.”

Tarveet. It was Tarveet, and that was the night I put a garden slug into his salad. Mother

spanked me for it-but I heard her laughing about it later. She didn’t really like Tarveet any more

than I did . . . .

Her eyes stung; she blinked once, hard, and kept her eyes on Master Ransome.

“The Visitors’ Gallery was crowded that day. It always was, whenever your mother spoke.”

Master Ransome smiled briefly. “Even your father was there.”

Which meant, Beka knew, that the debate would have been more than usually important-her

father had no use for politics, as a rule. “It makes no difference to me what they decide,” she’d heard him

say once. “All it ever means is more work for the Space Force.” Then he’d laughed, and smiled at her

mother. “You shouldn’t make so many speeches. It only encourages them.”

She didn’t dare look at her father now. Watching Master Ransome’s face was bad enough. It

made her wonder if the old portside story was true-that when Domina Perada Rosselin of Entibor came

to Waycross in search of a new commander for the Republic’s shattered spacefleet, she’d taken away

the hearts of Warhammer’s captain and copilot both.

“Somehow,” said Master Ransome, “the force field in the Visitor’s Gallery went down. And

there was an assassin. With a blaster. He got off one shot. Your father shot him before he could fire

again.”

Beka swallowed, and wet her lips. When she spoke, her voice sounded old and rusty. “That was

how it happened?”

“Not quite,” said the Adept. “Unlike your father, the assassin missed his target. All his shot hit

was the floor of the Council Hall. But one of the flying shards of marble from the floor struck your

mother. It was just a scratch, barely enough to justify visiting the Council’s medics. But she went . . . and

somebody had given them Clyndagyt instead of their usual variety of antiseptic spray.”

“I don’t understand,” Beka said. “There’s nothing wrong with Clyndagyt. It’s what we’ve got on

Claw Hard.”

Her father spoke again, for the first time in what felt to Beka like hours. “Clyndagyt works just

fine, as long as nothing’s managed to sensitize you to it. And that’s hard to do-about the only way to get

sensitized was in one of the Mageworlders’ biochemical attacks. But almost everybody who was at the

Siege of Entibor lived through a couple of those-and your mother wouldn’t leave until the Magelords had

just about wiped the whole planet slick. She had some kind of damn-fool notion about staying there and

making them kill her in person.”

Beka bit her lip. “She never told me that.”

“It makes a lousy bedtime story,” said her father. “And anyway, I talked her out of it. Now let’s

get down to business.”

So it comes around to family politics, after all, Beka thought. She clenched her fists again

under the table.

“No,” she said. “I’ll say to you what I said to Mother seven years ago. I don’t give a damn about

duty and family and all that. I’m not going back to Galcen and letting myself get made over into the next

Domina of Lost Entibor.”

Her father shook his head. “As it happens, I didn’t have anything of the sort in mind.”

“Then what-?”

“You say that Claw Hard’s a pile of junk and Osa’s a bastard. How would you like to be

captain of Warhammer instead?”

She caught her breath. “Me? Pilot Warhammer?” For a moment, in spite of all that she’d just

heard, the prospect dazzled her like walking out of a cave into the sunlight. Then she shook her head. “I

don’t have the kind of money a ship like the ’Hammer would cost. And I’m not taking any family

favors.”

“Don’t worry,” said her father. “I’m not in the business of doing favors, family or otherwise. And

I’m not asking anything you can’t afford.”

“There’s more than one way of looking at that,” said Master Ransome quietly. “And I don’t

particularly approve of what you’re doing.”

“Then stay out of it,” said her father. “I don’t approve of everything the Guild does, either-but I

don’t interfere in things that aren’t my business.”

He turned back to Beka. “Are you interested?”

“In getting Warhammer? Of course I’m interested.”

She looked about the common room-cramped, grey, and utilitarian-and thought about all the

things that had made this ship a legend during the Magewar. The heavy dorsal and ventral energy guns.

The cargo holds that had once held the captured treasures of the Mageworlds trade. The speed no ship

of her class had ever equaled.

I could stick to small cargo, Beka thought, pricey stuff, and run it fast. With those guns,

even flying solo I wouldn’t get in too much trouble. I could outshoot anything I couldn’t outrun.

She bit her lip-that was fantasy, and she knew it-and met her father’s gaze directly. “Ships like

the ’Hammer don’t come cheap. And I haven’t exactly struck it rich out here.”

“I don’t want money,” General Metadi said. “I want to know who planned your mother’s

murder.”

“Planned?”

“What do you think, girl?” he demanded harshly. “A lunatic with a blaster could happen any time,

and a shorted-out force field could be bad luck, and the wrong antiseptic could be delivered to the

Council medics by accident-but not all three at once. Somebody wanted your mother out of the way, and

wanted it badly. Hired blasters cost money, but getting that Clyndagyt past Security must have cost even

more.”

“You’re talking about somebody very, very rich,” she said quietly. “And very, very powerful.

And I’m very, very sorry, but I gave up running around with people like that seven years ago. Much as

I’d like to help you stake out our unknown friend for a cliffdragon’s breakfast, and much as I’d like to

have the ’Hammer to call my own-no.”

“We’re talking about somebody who either comes from Suivi Point or has connections there,”

her father continued. “And that, my girl, is exactly the sort of person you’ve been running around with for

the past few years. Do you deny it?”

She shook her head, the brief flare of resentment gone. “No. But if all you want from me is

inquiries out on the fringes of the law, you don’t have to buy them with Warhammer. I’ll do it for free.”

“That’s no good,” he said. “You’ll never be able to follow up anything if you have to go where

Osa and Claw Hard drag you. You take Warhammer; and I get the names, when you find them.”

She looked about the ’Hammer’s shadowed common room. “A ship like this-for nothing more

than a couple of names? I can’t take her, Dadda; it’s not enough.”

“She’s my ship,” said General Metadi, “and I say what she’s worth. The names will do.”

For a long time, Beka sat without answering, listening to the whisper of forced air through

Warhammer’s vents, and to the soft in-and-out of her own breath. The two sounds mingled in her ears,

like the breathing of a single creature.

A ship of my own, she thought. I used to say I’d give anything to have one. So now I get to

prove it.

“All right, Dadda. You have a deal.” She squared her shoulders, and extended her hand across

the mess table to seal the bargain free-spacer’s fashion. “Your names-my ship. Done?”

Her father met the grip with his own. “Done.”

Part One

I. mandeyn: embrig spaceport

Well past local midnight in Embrig Spaceport-port of call for the wealthy provincial world of

Mandeyn-the Freddisgatt Allee ran almost deserted from the Port Authority offices to the Strip. The

warehouses lining the Allee blocked most of the sky-glow from the lighted docking areas beyond, and

Mandeyn’s high-riding moon shed its pale illumination only in the center of the broad Allee.

Beka Rosselin-Metadi whistled an off-key tune through her front teeth as she took a leisurely

return walk down the Allee to her ship. The black wool cloak she wore against the cold of Embrig’s

winter night swirled around her booted ankles, and if she’d put a bit of extra swagger into her stride as

she left the Painted Lily Lounge-well, she figured she was entitled.

Damn right you’re entitled, my girl, she told herself. You made a tidy profit on carrying

those parts for Inter-world Data, and you’ve got another good cargo already on board for Artat-

not bad work for a twelve-hour layover with time out for dinner with an old shipmate.

The Sidh had been her first ship after leaving home, and she’d been junior to everyone on board,

including Ignaceu LeSoit. The knowledge that LeSoit and his friend Eterynic were crewing now on the

luckless Reforger-still in Embrig after three days, Standard, without finding a cargo-hadn’t spoiled her

evening in the least. Now that Beka was captain of her own ship, she lined up cargoes two ports ahead;

if she could, so could anybody.

Maybe I should think about hiring a crew of my own, she thought. Copilot, say, or an

engineer who knows a bit of gunnery. A gunner, that’s the ticket; then I could push my routes out

further into the fringes, and get a bit closer to what I’m really after-

Something hit her behind her right knee, hard. The leg collapsed beneath her, and she fell onto

her back in the street.

“What the-” she began, and swallowed the rest of it when a blaster bolt ripped through the air

where her head had been.

A second blaster answered, firing from a point above and beside her. She rolled toward the

nearest wall, where her black cloak stood a chance at blending into the shadows, and grabbed for her

own sidearm. Her hand came up empty.

She pressed herself flat against the metal siding of the warehouse. I’m a shadow, she thought.

Just a shadow that moved across the picture for a moment. The trick had always worked for her

brother Owen when they were both young; maybe it’d work for her if she tried hard enough.

Out in the street where she’d been walking a stranger stood, a blaster in each hand. He fired

once toward the rooftop opposite; Beka heard the clatter of a dropped weapon and the heavy thud of a

falling body. A left-handed shot down the intersecting alley brought a scream followed by silence.

As the outcry died, she heard a faint ratchety noise from farther along the road, a clear, distinct

sound in the frigid air. The stranger heard it, too: he whirled and fired both blasters down the Allee. The

man who had stepped from the shadows holding an energy lance flew backward and lay still.

The stranger turned to where Beka was lying and gestured at her to come out.

Beka unpeeled herself from the wall. Her knee hurt, and she’d dragged her cloak through the

slush when she rolled clear. The wet wool slapped against her legs as she limped out into the light and

said, “Who the hell are you?”

“A friend,” said the stranger. He holstered one of the blasters, and held her own weapon out

toward her.

She looked at the grey-haired gentleman, dressed for the weather in a long winter topcoat with

silver buttons. Without the hardware-and if she hadn’t seen him use it-she’d have figured him for a

teacher of languages and deportment at a young ladies’ finishing school.

She took back the blaster, checked the charge and the safety, and put it away. “Friend, huh?”

she said when she’d finished. “I suppose those other guys weren’t?”

“Not if your name’s Rosselin-Metadi. Can you walk?”

“If it’s back to my ship and out of here, yes. I’ve got a lift-off at zero-four-hundred local, and I’m

not in the mood for long explanations.”

“Then here’s a short one,” said the grey-haired gentleman. “The odds in town are running twelve

to one against you making it that far.”

“Short and sweet,” said Beka. “Almost enough to make me bet against myself. What’s your

angle, Professor?”

The gentleman gave a dry chuckle. “I’m playing the long shot,” he said. “I believe the Allee is

clear of amateur talent for the moment-my suggestion is that you make what haste you can to your ship

and wait for me there.”

“And then what?”

“And then I’ll tell you some things you ought to know.”

The gentleman gave Beka a polite half-bow, stepped sideways into the shadows, and vanished.

The Adepts do it better, Beka told herself. Then she looked back down the Allee, empty except for her

and the dead. But not by much.

She made it home to Warhammer without any more trouble. As always, her spirits lifted at the

sight of the familiar bulk of her ship, looming in silhouette against the white glare of the dock lights.

My ship. Damn, but that sounds good. In spite of the pain in her knee, Beka grinned as she

gave the ’Hammer a prelift walkaround.

“My lady?” came a cultured voice from the entrance of the docking bay. “Permission to come

aboard?”

She jumped, thought about going for her blaster, and decided the hell with it. If he’d wanted to

kill me, I’d be dead by now anyway.

“Permission granted, Professor,” she said. “And let’s make that ‘Captain,’ if you don’t mind.”

“My apologies, Captain.”

The grey-haired gentleman came forward out of the shadowed entry way as she toggled off the

force field at the ’Hammer’s ramp. The readouts on the security panel by the side of the main hatch

showed clear, so she went on through and gestured for him to follow.

“Welcome aboard Warhammer,” she said.

She brought the force field up again behind her visitor. After a second’s thought, she closed and

sealed the hatch as well. She’d finished all the paperwork with the port and with her cargo before leaving

the docks at the start of the evening, and anybody wanting in now wasn’t likely to be friendly.

Debra Doyle & James MacDonald - Mageworlds 01 - The Price of the Stars

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