Directorate School (The Directorate Book 1) Page 17

  Ebsa couldn't find a copy of the book on any library sites on the grid. And apparently the Government House Library's catalogue had never been digitized. He hesitated, then set up the cam on his comp and began carefully copying the entire book. As for what I'll actually write for that paper Professor Ivy told us to think about for next semester . . . umm, maybe an analysis of how the Oner clans formed, clusters of the descendants of the Warriors.

  And then he took a break and hunted down biographies of the Prophets. Read all about Nicholas One. Twenty-two wives and a hundred and three children over the course of his long life. His last wife and youngest daughter had been trapped at Rangpur and died with the Prophet. His teenage son from an earlier marriage to a daughter of the Prophet Emre, had died there.

  Holy . . . something.

  Ra'd Withione Nicholas Makkah. The name pretty much says it, doesn't it?

  I think perhaps Umaya was the wife of a Prophet. Can Ra'd and his sister actually be the children of the Prophet Nicholas?

  So Ra'd and his half sister and her mother, his courtesy uncle and some other people . . . this is such an old worn out plot. I swear half the thrillers ever written use the mythical time dilation of the mythical Bags of the Prophets to produce either heroes or horrors from the past . . . Can it have actually happened?

  The Fall of Fort Rangpur . . . That was a couple of months before the battle of Karachi . . . before the One Hive Mind came into existence, to save the city from a nuclear attack. That's why he's so skeptical about priests, about the One. His loyalty is to the Islamic Alliance, or maybe to the Prophets. And I don't think it transferred to the One.

  He returned to copying the Book of the Warriors. Couldn't stand it and broke off to flip through the alphabetical listings.

  Ra'd ibn Nicholas ibn Emre, trainee. Born in Makkah, 250 yp. Served in India. Died at Rangpur, 265 yp.

  Ebsa swallowed. "All things considered, I preferred the Space Alien theory." He looked around, but no one was there, to pay any attention to him. He finished the copying, put the books away and went off to find a ride to Versalle. Might as well work on my riding, or get beat up by Isakson again. Either is much less dangerous than research.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  24 Ramadan 1402 yp

  Late Fall 1400 px

  Nighthawk was sick and tired of the Wizards' School.

  All I can do here is take lessons about things I mostly already know! Books, sure, but . . . I'd rather be in Karista taking classes for college credit . . . And I'd really like to be back at the University of the Empire with . . .

  The dart hit her shoulder like a sledgehammer, a numbing blow that spread. Nighthawk reached and ripped it out. Fell to her knees. Poisoned! :: Nil! :: She tried to throw a cold spell, to chill her shoulder, slow the infusion of the poison . . . No power! Rough hands grabbed her, dragged her.

  She caught glimpses of faces. "Ape? Blob? What the Hell do you think you are doing! I didn't kill him, there's no revenge to be had here." It came out thickly, running together.

  "Shut up, Bitch!" An older man. Not a student, a regular Action Teamer. Under orders.

  "Why? You'd think they want to bury this whole mess." Dammit, she was mumbling even worse, no hope of raising her voice, and since everyone else was either inside fixing dinner or still down at the beach, there wasn't much point . . .

  The twist of the Gate, the chill of late winter air. Her feet dragged across the ground and out onto the road.

  Road.

  Enunciated as clearly as she could. "Harry! God of Travelers!" And just to be sure, "God of War!" Thick tongued, but good enough for this.

  A nasty laugh. "They can't hear you, you can't send any mental cries for help."

  "I don't have to. You echoed that prayer to the old gods."

  The ring of iron shod hooves on stone . . . the ground rushed up and hit her face.

  A familiar voice. "Bubble them, don't kill them, Wolf! Much better diplomatic points."

  She managed to shove up enough to see dark feet in sandals, the butt of a spear shaft impacting a knee . . . a bronze statue hitting the ground.

  "Oh, so we can bash them around a bit first?"

  "Don't see any harm in it."

  A few more crashes. Then her two grandfathers were kneeling beside her. And then her father. "Methalformaline. This will cut it up into harmless molecules . . . Looks like a tranq of some sort too. Nighthawk? Can you hear us?"

  Power flooded back in. She heaved a deep breath of relief. "Yeah. I just couldn't do anything. I can't believe they'd raid the Wizards School. Is it going to be like this forever?" She winced and hoped the residual mumbling covered the whine in her voice.

  "No." Her dad sat down beside her. "Thanks to your buddies untangling the murder charge so very publicly. This was pure rage on the part of someone. I don't even know if it was ordered, or if these ugly statues had the bright idea all by themselves. I'll bet this will be the last. But I don't think you can safely go back."

  Nighthawk blinked at him. "Why aren't you in uniform?"

  "Eh?" Xen shook his head and grinned. "Can't have the Head of Disco running off to interfere with the legal system of another world, now can we? And of course a member of the King's Own doing it would be an act of war."

  "Dad!" She tried to blink back tears. "I didn't mean to . . . "

  "Now, none of that. It'll be good for Disco to realize they can stand on their own merit and don't actually need me. And King Leano said he was rejecting my resignation . . . or would as soon as the diplomats determined that he didn't need to be able to repudiate me. I have a nasty suspicion he'll send me back to Disco fairly quickly, but with luck I can duck out of being renamed the boss and stuck with all that bloody paperwork."

  "Dad!"

  "But first a bit of non-lethal response. And a large warning of what we are capable of. If King Leano thinks it a good idea."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  7 Muharram, 1403 yp

  The first day of the spring semester started with a blizzard.

  Ebsa hustled out of the administration building, last winter's coat tight across his shoulders and a bit short in the sleeves. A pile of class assignments on his comp. But most of the classes were Team track.

  Intro to Information Sciences. More History, of course. Magic will be fun . . . I hope. Intro to Geology, Comparative Cultures, and One help me, Infiltrations of the Empire. I'm going to be studying Xen Wolfson. Can I get extra credit for having met him? Probably not.

  Martial Arts. Assigned times at the shooting range.

  Introduction to Large Field Equipment. Yippee!

  But there are just three semesters to go. Plus the two internships. I'll get one out of the way this summer. If there's enough time, possibly both of them.

  But now I know I can do it. I mean, I survived the semester from Hell. The rest should be a breeze.

  And once I graduate, the Multiverse is mine!

  Chapter Twenty-four

  1 Jumada 1403 yp

  The God of Just Desserts strolled through the gate to the One World, four dogs at his heels. The far side was outside, a brisk winter morning, bright sunshine slanting in from the east. A large building with a door labeled "Customs" was to the left, well out of the motor traffic lanes. It made him homesick, right down to the pylons and ropes ready to make neat lines of the non-existent people waiting to talk to customs clerks. The One had decided that their gate to Embassy needed separate handling, but it appeared to have been a wasted effort. Had they imagined a flood of people wanting to live in their high tech world? Surely they didn't make their own people go through customs as they came and went from their embassy.

  Lord Hell strolled up and nodded politely to the sole clerk. With his mind wide open it wouldn't take long for the local collective subconscious to notice him. The question was, would they believe? How would that hive-minded controlling group react? Could they stop the Instant Karma effect?

  "You can't bring dogs here!" The man punched
a button on his panel. "By the One they could have diseases, parasites. Unapproved genes!"

  A large door behind the clerk slid upwards.

  The drug search team trotted in with a pair of dogs and saluted. "What do we need to search?" The big door dropped down. There was a loud clicking, as of locks.

  "I ordered a biological isolation team, not more One bedamned dogs!" The clerk scowled at his panel, and carefully pushed a different button.

  Lord Hell cleared his throat. "I'm from Comet Fall, where I am known as the God of Just Desserts. I'm here to speak to the One about this Cold War they seem to be trying to start."

  "Comet Fall!" The clerk fumbled for a third button.

  "And you should be glad I'm the one who came to talk to you. Nil volunteered too, and the gleam in his eye was scary. He didn't like you people trying to steal his student."

  Clicking from the direction of the big door.

  The Biological Control Team barely made it through the door before the Special Security Squad burst in, brushing them aside and nearly trampling the Drug Squad as they homed unerringly in on the God.

  "Freeze! You're under Ahhh!"

  The pair of drug sniffing dogs didn't take being trampled very well, and had been trained to protect their handlers. The hell hounds jumped in to help. The Biological Control Team spread their isolation trap and threw it over the nearest dog. The huge great dane dodged between the legs of a security goon. An inadequate space; the man flailed as he reeled back. The trap snapped shut on him. Lord Hell sidestepped a leaping trooper, circled the dance of a Drug squadie trying to detach his dog from the arm of the Security goon. A second trap flew up into the air as two dogs hit the thrower's knees. The dogs scrambled out from beneath as it fell back and adhered. Hell shook his head and walked past the chaotic scrum that had mushroomed completely out of control. The big security door appeared to be jammed open at a slight angle, sliding up and down a few inches, mindlessly trying to free the jam. He ducked under it easily. Scampering claws, then an echoing boom as the door slid closed.

  "Do you know, that was impressive even by my own standards."

  He wandered through hallways, followed arrows down to a pedestrian tunnel with moving floors. The dogs sat, mouths open in happy grins. The other pedestrians eyed them and kept their distance. The . . . should he call it a slide walk? Whatever. It was smooth and fast . . . for a bit. Once it started jittering, he hopped off and walked up stairs and found himself walking into a tram station.

  The dogs wagged their tails happily and galloped ahead.

  The turnstile admitted him without payment and the six dogs ducked under or leaped over after him. The drug sniffing dogs were a pair of handsome black and tan german shepherds. They joined Red and Mot in claiming the train car as their personal territory. BB pooped in the middle of the aisle. Scar liked the smell of a leather briefcase and was wrestling with the prior owner for possession. The man was cursing. The woman in the next seat didn't look up from her book, but remarked loudly about the vulgarity of Some People.

  Lord Hell got off in roughly the center of town. The Plaza was busy, but the dogs homed right in on a group of young men lounging about eyeing the women getting off the tram.

  It seemed like a good spot for some artwork. He pulled the Action Team out of a bubble, still trapped in their personal inside-out bubbles. They'd moved slightly. A second passed, inside the bubbles, every two and half hours or so. Hell eyed the fellow curled up, clasping his knee, a grimace of pain on his face. "You know, if the negotiations last too long, you lot could be in trouble. I'd better double it. Then three years outside is just a second inside." He grabbed a bubble, whipped it inside out, over the man and pinned it to the ground. The next fellow was at least on his feet, turning, a startled expression on his face. An extra layer, pinned down . . . and the same for the rest. He shifted a few of them around, strictly for artistic appreciation, and not to deliberately block busy sidewalks.

  Really.

  He melded the plaque to the cement.

  They're alive. This is a dimensional effect not unlike a bag of the prophets, with time dilation. Agree to abide by the terms of the Comet Fall Treaty and they will be released.

  Lord Hell ignored the dogs, and the rising clamor of arguments starting and degenerating into name calling and fisticuffs in his wake. Q's maze of gates ended in, roughly, Paris. The Oner Gate from Embassy that he'd taken was located in North America. So, he needed to find out about plane flights, or possibly corridor transits.

  He spotted a sign for a Travel Agent and headed across the street. Brakes shrieked and metal crunched. Someone cursed him, someone else cursed the first man's driving. The traffic jam grew exponentially as tempers were thrown to the wind.

  The gentleman at the tourist office was happy to arrange a round trip ticket to Mecca, or Makkah as it was known here, a combination of plane, corridor and train travel, as planes weren't allowed to over-fly the holy site. It took the travel agent three tries to get it right; he apologized profusely and seemed happy to take gold slugs in payment.

  Out on the street the pedestrians had joined the fun. Red was humping something large and fluffy, while a woman shrieked and kicked at him. The Black Bitches and the shepherds were playing chase with briefcases and owners all over the Plaza and through the stalled cars. He left them to their fun and walked a few blocks until he found a taxi. The second taxi had sufficient charge to get him to the airport.

  He sighed with nostalgic pleasure over the busy terminal and long lines. The dogs found him just before he boarded, and he scooped them into a bubble for the flight. No one on board deserved them loose for the trip. Or at least he didn't.

  He caught some odd looks.

  "Are you one of those so-called Comet Fall wizards?" At least he only had one seat mate, in first class.

  "No. I'm one of their Old Gods."

  "Old . . . the ones they swear by? The ones that claim to be thousand year old Exiles from Earth, who knew the Prophets? Impossible. The Prophets, while they lived extraordinarily long lives, all died centuries ago."

  Lord Hell nodded. "They sought to rule the natives they found here. We sought to help the people we were exiled with. No surprise your batch got themselves killed. And they didn't have exactly the same mix of engineered genes that we had. They were the product of a different company."

  "Product! Sir, that is no way to speak about the Prophets."

  "Sorry, religion always hates history." Lord Hell tried to shut down all his karmic effect, gave up and thought happily about his family. Trump had put her foot down and refused to have any more children this century. But the kids were more than making up for it in grandchildren—eight new ones, this year—and any time now the great-grandchildren would start appearing.

  From Paris they'd take a corridor to Baghdad, and then a train to Makkah. In fact the corridors were all located inside the air terminal, and he ignored the lost, mistaken and spilled luggage around him as he spotted the arrows under the banners trumpeting the opening of "The New Dimension in Travel Convenience." He followed signs to the right destination and stepped through a corridor into the baking desert heat.

  "Where the One am I? This isn't Prague!"

  Lord Hell ignored the lost businessman and strolled the crowded streets. Three young men started yelling at a woman swathed in black, and he let the dogs out. The shepherds seemed to be getting the hang of the game, and joined Red in treeing the young men. The bitches were running about, digging and pooping. Mot was humping a screaming man; a scrawny moth-eaten camel was looking on in approval. Scar yelped and ran. Something exploded behind her, and Lord Hell shook his head. Over fourteen centuries and they're still blowing themselves up.

  A mob of people chased another mob out of a graceful mosque. "Not here! Not in our mosque!"

  A young man stomped out of a courtyard. "She's my cousin. I'm not marrying her, I don't care about keeping the family fortune in the family. And she's only twelve! When I finally get under a
dabeeda, I want to find some curves!"

  "What do you know about women?" The old man pursuing him demanded.

  "A whole lot less than I'd like!" the young one yelled back.

  Lord Hell stretched his legs and hurried the last six blocks to the train station. He was much better off avoiding crowded places. Not that he could, here. He found the right tracks for the Makkah train and waited as far from other people as possible. The dogs panted up, happy as could be, and sprawled around him watching various officials head his way, probably to tell him that dogs weren't allowed on the trains, only to trip or be accosted by another passenger, or turn suddenly and hustle for the restrooms.

  It was moderately entertaining, and the train arrived a bit early. He and the dogs took the front of the first car and the other passengers left them alone after the first two incidents. An odd pressure started pushing at his mind, and he opened himself to it for a moment, then shielded to filter the effect. It got worse and he leaned back at it, keeping his shields firm and hard, leaking only as much as he wanted, both directions. If Trump has to come rescue me, you lot are in big trouble. At Makkah, a middle aged man looked him over, frowning, then escorted him to see the One.

  Or at any rate a collection of people who kept coming and going, always with twenty or so people staring unnervingly at him. Not always the same twenty, and more starting to stay than go. Men—eunuchs, rather—and perhaps a third of the apparently interchangeable people were women. Do they neuter them as well?

  "Your agents have murdered our people, ours saved your President's life. One of our students was only peripherally involved in the accidental death of one of yours, but was convicted of murder. You have attempted kidnapping to bring her back for execution, despite the clearly rushed trial and lies of witnesses and police. You have invaded our nation. You have seduced a neighboring nation to attack the Earth, leaving us holding the blame. Your system of justice is corrupt: influenced by politics, catering to power, prejudiced, biased, and elitist, it has just been used as a weapon against us. You have failed to cleanse your gene pool of sexual deviants, rapists and pedophiles. I suppose the last is none of my business, but then you decided to turn a dead would-be rapist into sufficient cause for a deadly war. Why? What is causing this hatred? I've never given an entire world its just desserts, but you are driving me to it."