Read Online Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra by Stephen Lawhead - Free Book Online Page A

Feeling Pizzle's eyes on him, he turned and glared at the gnome. “Well?”
    “Nothing. I was just thinking that it's going to be a long trip. We might as well be friends.” He paused, waiting for Treet to say something polite, like:
Oh, of course, let's by all means be the very best of chums.
When Treet said nothing, he continued. “You play Empires?”
    “No,” Treet said coldly. “I detest games of chance.”
    “Oh, there's no chance involved—all intellect. It's a lot like chess, only bigger and more subtle.” He grinned his snaggle-toothed impish grin again. “I'll teach you. How about it?”
    Treet shrugged, getting up. “Some other lifetime perhaps. If you'd call up that book for me, I'd appreciate it.” He turned and bounded from the table, leaving Pizzle to clean up.
    “That slime devil Varro,” Treet muttered, “better have a wonderful explanation for all this, or there's going to be a mutiny!”
EIGHT
    “I am sorry, Mr. Treet, but as I have already explained, Mr. Varro is in Maracaibo for at least three weeks. He cannot be reached due to the recent severance of diplomatic relations. No calls are being transmitted between Venezuela and League countries.”
    Treet felt his temper rising dangerously. He wanted to reach through the screen and shake the smug young lady on the other side. “Then I must have a word with Chairman Neviss. It concerns a matter of utmost importance. Life and death,” he added. “Please, you must let me speak to him.”
    “Mr. Treet, you know I would like to help you. I cannot. No one may speak to the Chairman without clearance.”
    “Get me clearance!”
    “I would love to arrange for clearance, Mr. Treet, as soon as you give me your personal identification code. As you refuse—”
    “Refuse! I don't
have
a code, dammit!”
    “Anger won't help you, Mr. Treet. Perhaps you would like to call back when you have calmed down.”
    “Wait, don't hang up. Look, there must be someone there who can authorize clearance without a PI code—”
    “Only Mr. Varro—”
    “Besides him. Who else? There must be some other way.”
    “Well,” the young lady paused, “I could have Chief of Security do a PSP on you—that's a Personnel Security Probe. Upon completion of the PSP you would be issued a personal identification code, but—”
    “Do it.”
    “But—”
    “But nothing. Just do it.”
    “Mr. Treet, it takes six weeks to do a thorough PSP.”
    “Grrr!” Treet growled and slammed his fist down on the EOT button on the console, ending the transmission. Instantly he regretted the move. There were still several things he wanted to say to the officious young witch on the other end.
    Due to sunspot interference, it had taken him the better part of thirty-four hours to get a call through to Cynetics. All that time the
Zephyros
streaked ever closer to rendezvous with the wormhole, and with every passing hour the possibility of turning back diminished even further.
    Not that there had ever been much chance of turning back in the first place. But Treet had at least hoped to scorch Varro with a few well-chosen words. Apparently even that was impossible. He had begun to think that Varro had caused the sunspots in order to avoid being contacted. And as far as Treet was concerned, the story about Varro's trip to Maracaibo was an out-and-out lie. The scumbag just didn't want to talk to him. It was the oldest tactic in the executive manual: don't call us, we'll call you.
    Treet sat with clenched fists and teeth, grimacing at the empty screen. He knew now that he had been tricked, and that Varro also knew that he knew and was therefore avoiding him. That more than anything else angered him: the impotence of playing the dupe.
    He shoved back his chair, gliding halfway across the room with the force of his movement. They were under thrust most of the time now, flying perpendicular to the orbital plane of Earth— that was as much as he had been able to get from Crocker about their