tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46818659817044532462024-03-13T22:16:32.194-07:00Light Years Away: Spaceships, aliens, and distant worldsJohn M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-1739406084343518662016-04-24T11:10:00.000-07:002016-04-24T11:13:19.338-07:00The Jurgen ReportI have a new blog, The Jurgen Report, featuring a series of stories I've been writing about Chicago P.I. Tom Jurgen, whose cases often take him into supernatural territory. Check it out here:
<a href="http://jurgenreport.blogspot.com">http://jurgenreport.blogspot.com/</a>John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-77621245836784654312015-01-03T16:15:00.000-08:002015-01-03T16:15:09.369-08:002014 BooksThese are the books I've read this year:<br />
<br />
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dreamsnake,
Vonda N. McIntyre *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fiddlehead,
Cherie Priest ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Vamparazzi,
Laura Resnick ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Robopocalypse,
Daniel H. Wilson *** .5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Axis, Robert
Charles Wilson *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Lost
Fleet: Courageous, Jack Campbell ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Owner,
Book One: The Departure, Neal Asher *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Indexing,
Seanan McGuire ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sere From
the Green, Lauren Jankowski **.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shadow Ops:
Control Point, Myke Cole ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shades of
Milk and Honey, Mary Robinette Kowal *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Woken
Furies, Richard K. Morgan, ****.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Polterheist,
Laura Resnick ***.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Half-Off
Ragnarok, Seanan McGuire ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A Thousand
Perfect Things, Kay Kenyon *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Plague
Forge, Jason M. Hough, ****.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Abaddon’s
Gate, James S.A. Corey *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fortune’s
Pawn, Rachel Bach ***.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A Darkling
Sea, James L. Cambias ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Zero Point
(The Owner: Book Two), Neal Asher ****.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Arrivals, Melissa Marr ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Inherent
Vice, Thomas Pynchon ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Human
Division, John Scalzi ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Grimspace,
Ann Aguirre ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Free Live
Free, Gene Wolfe *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Etched
City, K.J. Bishop ****.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ghost Story
(Dresden Files), Jim Butcher ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My Real
Children, Jo Walton *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Shining
Girls, Lauren Beukes ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wanderlust,
Ann Aguirre ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Parasite,
Seanan McGuire ***.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Vortex,
Robert Charles Wilson *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Inferno,
Mike Resnick ***.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Night
Stalker, Jeff Rice **.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dark Progeny
(Doctor Who), Steve Emmerson ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Steerswoman, Rosemary Kirstein *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Farside, Ben
Bova ***.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Outlander,
Diana Gabaldon ****.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Peacemaker,
C.J. Cherryh *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Terms of
Enlistment, Marko Kloos *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mission to
Horatius, Mack Reynolds ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Owner,
Book 3: Jupiter War, Neal Asher ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Revolt of
the Triffids (AKA The Day of the Triffids), John Wyndham *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Winter
Long, Seanan McGuire *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Re-Birth,
John Wyndham ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Death’s Dark
Domain (Doc Savage). Kenneth Robeson ***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sandman
Slim, Richard Kadrey ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stowaway to
Mars, John Wyndham **.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lock In,
John Scalzi ****.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Her Smoke
Rose Up Forever, James Tiptree, Jr. (finished)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Pride of
Chanur, C.J. Cherryh *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Pritcher
Mass, Gordon R. Dickson **.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nova, Samuel
R. Delany ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Chanur’s
Venture, C.J. Cherryh ****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Enceladus Crisis, Michael J. Martinez *****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hmm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<!--StartFragment-->
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’ve got to
thank JfPowaloski for lending me his copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Revenge of the Triffids</i>, which was great, and also led me to some
other John Wyndham books. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The one
non-SF book on the list is Thomas Pynchon’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inherent
Vice</i>, a detective novel in the mold of Raymond Chandler. A combination of
Pynchon and Chandler is going to be weird, and this one lived up to the
promise. Confusing like Chandler, amusing like Pynchon, and confounding like
both of them. Possibly I should have rated it higher. Looking forward to the
movie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Free Live Free</i>, by Gene Wolfe, about 30
years ago, and didn’t quite get it at the time. But like Pynchon, Gene Wolfe is
never predictable, and pretty much everything he writes is worth reading.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Night Stalker</i>? I kept hearing Darren
McGavin’s voice as I read the book. But really, you should just watch the
movie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Outlander</i>. Just great. Can’t wait for
the DVDs to come from Netlfix, and to get the next book from the library.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mission to Horatius.</i> The first Star Trek
novel I ever read, actually before I’d really seen the original TV show. A
so-so novel, but it brought back memories.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thanks, Jason,
for recommending the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sandman Slim</i>
novels.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nova</i>, by Samuel Delany. Another book I
read a long time ago, but that meant a lot more to me now. Delany is a fantastic
writer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-29459487065602499182015-01-02T12:39:00.000-08:002015-01-02T12:39:20.120-08:00New story: Portal<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
(New story, new character. Tell me what you think!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thomas Hale
Jurgen. Age 41. Unlike a lot of private detectives, I was never a cop. I used
to be a reporter, until I covered a story about the murder of a little girl on
a south side playground. Eyewitnesses insisted that a shadowy monster had
butchered the kid and then disappeared down a storm drain, but the cops leaned
on my editor to kill the piece. I wrote a big story about the public’s right to
know, straight out of <i>Kolchak: The Night Stalker</i>. Then I quit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually
I got a job doing research for a law firm. Then the lawyer I worked for got
killed by her vampire ex-husband.I quit the law firm. Seeing the pattern here?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
now I’m a private eye. No one has ever compared me to Sam Spade or Spenser,
although I have been called a stubborn asshole from time to time. I’m not very
courageous. Supernatural beings still freak me out, but unfortunately I can’t
quit when I’m working for myself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some
days I question my career choices.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b>* * * </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<!--StartFragment-->
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PORTAL<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was a
reporter before I became a private detective. So I’ve seen a few dead
bodies—shot, stabbed, mutilated by werewolves, and drained by vampires. It
never gets easy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Clark
Glendon was sprawled on the carpet, his clothes ripped and bloody. His left arm
looked like something had gnawed had the skin off and then eaten lunch on the
muscle beneath.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
clamped my jaws. Cops hate vomit all over a crime scene.<u><o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
hallway door had been unlocked. The empty reception room was small and narrow.
The door in back was shredded. The hinges were intact, but the rest of it had
been clawed into splinters by an angry grizzly bear. Glendon’s body lay in the
center of the small office.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
place might have been some kind of computer lab a few hours ago. Now it looked
like Tokyo after a visit from Godzilla. High-tech equipment crushed into
Lego-sized blocks, a worktable in splinters, a folding chair torn apart, a
stepladder sticking through a gash in the drywall, a long crack in the window
on the opposite wall, letting in the mid-afternoon sun. Computer equipment lay
strewn across a trio of worktables: monitors, boards, cables, and a bunch of
tech stuff I didn’t recognize.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
did recognize Glendon. My client, Lauren Moore, was CEO of a company in
downtown Chicago. Glendon had been working on a project for her, and the
deadline was coming up without any word from him. I’d done some work for her
before—nothing that had involved any dead bodies—so she hired me, showed me
some pictures, and let me search the cubicle he was using for the project. I
found the address of this place in his desk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was a small building in Evanston, and the rent was being paid by a company
called Tera Systems LLC. Nothing suspicious about that. Glendon was a
consultant, after all. Still, I’d been nervous about possibly being charged
with trespassing. Just a knock on the door—that was my plan, and maybe a peek
inside. But the door was unlocked. And the inner door had been destroyed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
doors gave me a puzzle to concentrate on as I tried not to throw up. Glendon
had been ripped apart, and one door completely wrecked. But the other door was
still intact, as if the same killer had left quietly and politely—or left some
other way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or
was still hiding inside. I held my breath and stood silently in the doorway. I
took out my cell phone to call the police.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
I heard a whimper from the restroom in the back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh
hell. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<o:p><b>* * * </b></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Great.
Whoever had mutilated Glendon might still be in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
the groan might be another victim. Someone who needed help. Still, the police
were my best bet. I tapped my cell phone—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
something peered around the edge of the bathroom doorway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Its
face was covered in gray fur, and its ears were pointed like an elf’s. Two long
blunt teeth rose from its lower jaw, and its mouth seemed to extend halfway
around its head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Why
can’t I ever have a normal case once in a while</u>?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello?”
I held up a hand. “My name’s Tom. Tom Jurgen. Are you all right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
answered with something like a frightened whimper, then ducked back into the
bathroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
seen lots of strange and supernatural things—and gotten a reputation for
handling problems straight out of <u>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</u>—but I didn’t
recognize this creature. And neither would any cops who came in to check out
the scene.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
their reaction might be, well, negative.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fighting
the impulse to turn and run, I took a deep breath and stepped carefully into
the office, careful not to get close to the body or nudge any of the wreckage
as I approached the bathroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi
there?” My voice shook and my throat was hoarse. But I didn’t want to surprise
it when I reached the bathroom door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
looked like an overgrown koala, cowering next to the toilet, trembling all
over. Its body was round and gray, with no neck, but it had two long, gangly arms
and two short, stubby legs. It blinked at me, trying to stay calm while figured
out what I was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
we had that in common.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
held up my cellphone. “I’m just going to take a picture, okay? Picture?” I felt
like a tourist in a foreign land trying to communicate by talking loud. But the
creature didn’t argue or attack me. It just blinked again, and scratched its
butt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three
pictures. I sent an email and then called Rachel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rachel’s
my girlfriend. At least sometimes. She lives upstairs from me, and she helps me
out on my cases. She doesn’t like to be called a witch, but she has some
unusual abilities that come in handy when I’m handling supernatural cases.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi,
this is Rachel, I’m not here right now unless your name is, uh, Brandon, and
you’re calling to take me to an expensive dinner or maybe buy me jewelry—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Rachel?
Shut up and check your email.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?
Is that any way to talk to me? No ‘Hello, how are you, I’ve missed you, what’s
new’? I was thinking about letting you—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
in the middle of a crime scene. Five feet away from a dead body, and I need you
to identify something. Please look at your email.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dead
bodies? We talked about this. I only . . .” I heard the clicking on hr
keyboard. “Oh, wow. What’s that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sighed. “I was hoping you could tell me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait
a minute, it just took me by surprise. Let me zoom in.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
creature looked at me, curious but calm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
here it is. That little fella is probably a wheesling. They live in another
reality. How did it end up in a bathroom? Where are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Evanston.
No idea what it’s doing here. Can you tell me anything about them?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’re
smart, peaceful, mostly eat leaves and veggies, but—whoa, be careful, according
to the database they break down tough fibers by spitting up some kind of acid.
Don’t let him lick you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are
they intelligent? Can you talk to them?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’re
as smart as you or me. Or me, at least. But their language . . . okay, I speak
six languages on Earth and one or two from other dimensions, but not this one.
But wait.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
waited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you remember Carrie Burke? She speaks wheesling.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She’s
the one who doesn’t like me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
doesn’t exactly narrow it down, but yeah. Actually, she likes you fine, she
just thinks I can do better.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
wasn’t the time for that argument. “Will she talk to me? I mean, will she try
to talk to the wheesling?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
the word “wheesling” the creature’s pointed ears trembled. It lifted its head,
its eyes wide. I nodded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
send you her number.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks.
By the way, how are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fine,
thanks for asking.” She hung up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
moment later her email with Carrie’s number came. “Wheesling,” I said to the
creature. “Me, Tom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Its
mouth opened in what I hoped was a grin. “Tommm . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello?”
Carrie didn’t recognize the number, and her answer was cautious. I couldn’t
blame her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi,
Carrie? It’s Tom Jurgen.” Would she remember me? “Rachel’s friend? I need your
help.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tommm,”
the wheesling repeated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?
Rachel? What? Oh, wait . . .” I heard a crash in the background, and a loud
curse. The human kind, not a supernatural spell. “Okay, I got it. Coke all over
the floor. Who is this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tom
Jurgen. Rachel gave me your number. I’ve got a wheesling here.” I looked at the
little creature. Obviously scared, but watching me intently. “I can’t explain
it right now, but I need you to try and talk to him. Or her. Would you do that?
Please?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait.”
She dropped the phone. I heard a dog barking in the background. <u>Down, Zeus!
Good boy!</u> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
a moment she picked up again. “Sorry. A wheesling? What do you want me to say?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
tried to think. “Find out its name. Tell him my name. Then tell him to come
with me. Can you do that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
try. Give me a second, I need paper towels here. Okay, let me find the
dictionary on my laptop . . . okay. I hope I’ve got the right accent.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hit the speaker phone function and held the phone out. “Go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carrie
spoke. The language was musical, full of short sounds and high pitches. The
wheesling stared at the box, then jumped up, its mouth wide open, and answered
with what looked like relief and joy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
chattered for a few moments. I thought I caught my name in the flow of strange
words. Then Carrie said, “Okay, Tom?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tom!”
The wheesling pointed at me. “Tommm!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
nodded. “Tom. Yeah, Carrie?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“His
name’s Pontoval. He’s very scared.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
makes two of us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
told him to go with you, that you’d take care of him. That’s right, isn’t it?
You aren’t going to sell him to a zoo or make a pelt from him, are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Did
all of Rachel’s friends hate me? “I need to get him away from a crime scene
before the cops show up. I’m taking him home. Will he come with me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.
And I’ll be right there too.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
groaned with relief. “Thank you.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
Rachel.” She hung up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked at the wheesling. “Pontoval?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
his legs, he was three feet tall, and his arms stretched toward me like a
frisky orangutan. He sprang forward, and I teetered back as I caught him,
grunting as my shoulder hit the wall. “Yeah, yeah, we’re good, just . . . okay,
Pontoval? We’ve got to leave?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tommm.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Uh-huh.
I staggered, my legs shaking as I lugged him out of the bathroom. Pontoval
weighed 50 or 60 pounds, and I hadn’t carried anything heavier than a large
take-out meal in years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pontoval
clutched my shoulders. His fur smelled like long grass on a hillside, with some
flowers in the background. Although his breath needed some mouthwash. I took
careful steps through the room to evade the corpse and anything on the floor
that looked like evidence the cops might want. I felt like I was playing
Twister with a bag of rocks on my back. Pontoval squealed as I rocked on one
foot, and patted my head as I lurched through the broken door to the front
office.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
paused, catching my breath. Out in the hall we might run into anyone. Maybe I
could convince any office dwellers I met in the elevator that the wheesling was
a pet from New Zealand or somewhere. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tommm?”
He sounded scared again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
patted his arm. “Pontoval.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mmm.”
He rubbed his head against my shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”
I hoped my legs would hold out. “Let’s go, Ponto.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b>* * * </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I hoped
anyone who pulled up beside me at a red light would just assume I had a big
gray puppy in the back seat of my Honda. By the time I reached my apartment in
Rogers Park, the late afternoon sun was fading, and Pontoval was sound asleep.
I tried to carry him as gently as I could up the stairs to my apartment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
dropped him on the couch with a grunt. My back ached, and my mind was a mess. A
dead body, a creature from another dimension, and a wrecked office. One plus
one plus equals—what? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
couldn’t really believe that Pontoval had killed Glendon and destroyed the
office. His fingers didn’t have claws. And his two long teeth were blunt.
Pontoval might have attacked Glendon in a confused rage, especially if he’d
been pulled from his home without warning. But he didn’t seem equipped to rip
his body to bloody shreds. And he was cute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
unscrewed a water bottle from the fridge. Back in the living room, I nudged the
bottle against his thin lips like a father trying awkwardly to feed an infant
for the first time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pontoval
grabbed the water bottle, leaned back, and sucked the water down with a single
gulp. Rolling back and forth, he rubbed his chest and then emitted a loud,
satisfied burp. “Tommm.” He threw the bottle onto the floor. “Tommm.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah
. . .” I stroked his head. “That’s me.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
cell phone buzzed. Rachel. “Are you home yet? We’re right outside. Carrie’s
here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Be
right there.” I patted Ponto’s head. “Just a minute, okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ohh-kayyy!”
He panted like a puppy. “Tommm.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
opened the door. “Hi!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hiii!”
Ponto shouted from the couch. “Hiiii . . .?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello.”
Carrie was an African-American woman, tall and solid. “Good to see you again.”
She shook my hand. “Where is . . . oh, hi there!” She circled around me and
headed for the couch. “Pontoval? Eeks som anti van pol arand . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
breathed a sigh of relief when Rachel walked in. She gave me a quick kiss on
the cheek. “You okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
fine.” I felt tired. “A dead body, and a creature from another dimension—long
day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pontoval
and Carrie were already chattering like old friends. Carrie sat on the floor,
her legs crossed, and Pontoval bounced up and down like a puppy begging for
treats. The couch had come from a resale shop, and I wasn’t sure how much
pounding it would take, but this didn’t seem like the time to tell an alien
from another reality to settle down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
can she speak his language?” I asked Rachel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She
collects books. There’s this one manuscript from a 17<sup>th</sup>-century
wizard that she stole from . . . well, you don’t want to know.” She winked at
me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
were still talking. So I went back to the kitchen for some more water bottles
and a few cans of beer for Rachel and me. “So what do wheeslings eat?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carrie
rocked back on her heels. “Greens. Vegetables. Just like a lot of us here.
Ponto, alla van uto marre?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
phone buzzed. “Tom? Hey, I just got a call. From the police.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
took a deep breath. Lauren Moore was a CEO, and she was smart enough to keep
her tech company running through two or three recessions—and to spot any
evasions from me. I’d worked for her before. “Yeah. I think I know what they
said.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Clark
is dead. That’s what they told me. Did you . . .?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
was there.” I hesitated. “It’s complicated.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
they didn’t ask about you. I guess there was some paperwork in his other office
with our name on it. What’s going on?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked at Pontoval. He was still talking to Carrie, but his eyelids were
drooping. “Your project was just a website application, right? A shopping cart
thing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
basically. Smoothing out the purchasing process for a company selling training
videos online. What does that have to do with Clark getting killed?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
tried not to picture his corpse on the floor. “Probably nothing. Look, do you
know anything about Glendon’s project for Tera Systems?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tera
Systems.” Moore’s voice got quiet. “That’s Ray Antonias.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pontoval
had slouched over on the couch. His eyes were closed. Carrie stretched her arms
and slowly climbed to her feet. She nodded to me, then walked over to Rachel to
ask a quiet question. And then she headed toward my bathroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hoped I’d cleaned it lately. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did
he say what he was working on?” I asked Moore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
We all have confidentiality agreements for contractors. But Ray’s work is kind
of—out there. Although he doesn’t know as much about technology as he thinks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At this one
cocktail party he said once time that he was going to take data into another
dimension, and I’m not sure it was just a metaphor or too many martinis.” She
sighed. “Shit. I’ve got a deadline coming up. Do you know any computer
wizards?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked at Rachel. She was in sweatpants and an orange T-shirt, and she looked
gorgeous, as always. And she knew more about technology than anyone who didn’t
work for Google or Microsoft, as far as I knew. “Maybe. I’ll get back to you.”
I hung up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carrie
emerged from the bathroom. “Men,” she muttered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry.”
I kept my voice quiet to avoid waking Pontoval. “Do you know what happened?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
what he’s been telling me.” She took a gulp of water. “I’m working with
vocabulary from a book that’s 400 years old. Anyway, it sounds like he was with
his clan by a river, doing some kind of religious service, and they were
attacked by something called a voarkla. Ponto was running, and he fell into the
water, and then—something happened that he couldn’t tell me about in any words
I could understand.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
happened to the, the—what did you call it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
voarkla.” She spelled it out from memory. “That’s what the old book called it,
anyway. Pontoval woke up on a hard floor in a strange place, full of strange
tools. He heard the voarkla eating, and then the noise just stopped.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
what happened to the—the voarkla?” I glanced at Ponto, but he was snoring
softly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
said something about a hot star, but the rest of it didn’t make much sense. He
hid in a big white shiny room until you found him.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
it might be gone? Back to the other dimension?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
looked at Pontoval. “I don’t know anything about his world. But if I understood
him, well . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “We all better hope it’s gone for good.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b>* * * </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I woke up
the next morning with Pontoval next to me on the bed, breathing in a steady,
sleepy rhythm. At least he on top of the blankets, not snuggling me between the
sheets. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
slid out of the bed carefully and staggered toward the bathroom. Waking up next
to a monster—whether the monster was Pontoval or me—was no way to start a tough
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d
fixed up a bed of sheets and pillows for him—on the floor!—while Rachel went to
the store for mixed greens and vegetables and Carrie did her best to explain
the concept of toilets. Then we finally ordered pizza. Then everyone had left,
leaving me with a wheesling I couldn’t talk to, but who seemed to trust me. We
were both exhausted, so we collapsed in the bedroom by 10:00.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the bathroom I turned the radio on to NPR to brush my teeth, keeping the volume
low. The local news was predictable: more problems with the public schools,
corruption in the state governor’s office, and then—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Chicago
Police are investigating a string of animal attacks spreading from Evanston and
Rogers Park down toward the Lakeview neighborhood. Two customers at an Evanston
CompUniverse store were severely mauled by an animal described as a large
coyote or wolf last night, which disappeared before authorities could capture it.
A woman in a coffee shop on Morse Avenue was killed this morning by a creature
that witnesses said resembled a large rabid dog, which once again got away
before officers arrived. Police are advising citizens to be wary of possibly
rabid stray dogs. The Chicago Bulls won another game last night against the—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh
hell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
washed my face the sink as fast as I could, then dashed back to the bedroom for
my phone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”
Rachel groaned. “Oh, it’s you. Hang on while I push Chang and Julio out of the
way, they always hog the bed—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
voarkla’s still here.” I pulled a drawer open looking for pants. “It’s on the
radio. Check out the news sites, will you? They reported murders in Rogers Park
and Lakeview, just like—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Voarkla?”
Pontoval sat up. “Voarkla!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Got
to go.” I dropped the phone. Pontoval jumped off the bed, and completely forgot
any instructions Carrie had given him on the use of the thing called a
“toilet.” Fortunately I’d put some sheets down on the floor. Even so, the
cleanup wouldn’t be fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
waved my hands, but Pontoval only danced back and forth, squealing like a
frightened child.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pontoval!”
I kneeled down in front of him. Why didn’t I ask Carrie to reach me some words?
“It’s me! Tom! You’re safe! Tom?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
squatted down, panting. His gray furry shoulders shook, and then he leaned
forward to grab me in a hug. “Tommm,” he murmured. “Tommm.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
that’s me.” I held him close, hoping he was finished. He shuddered, moaning,
and I felt his lips licking my shoulder. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
try to be open-minded, and I let him take a few minutes to calm down. Then I
gently pushed him back. “Stay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tommm.”
He looked up at me, his jaws wide in a smile. Then his eyes flicked down at the
mess on my rug. “Toy-lett?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
patted his head. “Don’t worry about it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
scampered toward the bathroom. I sighed. Then, still in my boxers, I searched
the Internet on my phone to find the number for Tera Systems.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ray Antonias
peered at me across a long black desk. “What was your name again?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tom
Jurgen.” I tried to keep my focus. “I’m a private detective. I wanted to talk
about Clark Glendon.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well
. . .” Antonias wore a black T-shirt and tight wire-rimmed glasses. The muscles
in his arms looked as if he worked out every day. “I’m not sure how much I can
tell you. Lawyers, you know.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
not like that. I was just hoping you could tell me what he was working on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well.”
Antonias sipped coffee from a tall black mug. “Some of that’s proprietary. And
I’ve already talked to the police about—what happened.” An eyebrow twitched.
“If you’re looking for something to pin on my company—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
not here about liability. And I appreciate your time. But it’s important. Can
you just give me some idea of the project?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
tapped a finger on the desk. “Well . . . no.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
can’t be that secret. Everyone is doing business on the Internet these days—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look,
I’m sorry Clark is dead.” He set his mug down like a chess player announcing
check. “But I’m not going to just tell you all about our projects for some
fishing expedition. If that’s it, then we’re done and I have work to do.” He
swiveled around to his computer. “That’s all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
I ask you just one question?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
was here all day yesterday, if that’s what you’re after. You can ask anyone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did
the project have anything to do with breaking the barrier between dimensions?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stared at me. Then he picked up his coffee, took a quick sip, and lifted his
phone his phone. “Kate? Could you come to my office right now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Kate”
didn’t sound like the name of a security guard coming to throw me out. I
waited, puzzled, until she showed up a few minutes later—a short woman with
dark hair in jeans, sneakers, and a gray University of Illinois sweatshirt.
Maybe she was a master of kung fu. Or mistress—was that politically incorrect?
“What do you need, Ray?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Kate
Asbury, head of IT special projects. Tom, Jurgen, private eye. Could you
describe Clark’s project to Tom, please?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
narrowed her eyes at me, then shrugged. “We’re looking at ways to transfer data
faster across the Internet. Clark had some ideas about shooting data packets
using a different kind of protocol. He called it Portal-2.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did
it go through a different universe?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kate
looked at Antonias, her eyebrows high. He nodded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Something
. . . like that.” She looked me over. “What do you know about it?”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here’s
what I think happened.” I tried to sound as rational as I could. At least they
seemed to be listening. “Glendon managed to open a gateway for sending data,
but something else came through. It’s called a voarkla, and it killed him. Something
else came through, a wheesling named Pontoval. I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve
got the wheesling in my apartment, and I think the voarkla is still here.” I
waited for them to declare me crazy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh
my God.” Kate stared at me. “How do you know all this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
found Glendon in the office you were paying for. One of the doors was wrecked,
but the outer door was intact and locked. That means the voarkla got out some
other way. Have you listened to any of the news this morning?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ray,
I need to check the server logs.” She stood up. “There might be something
there—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Take
him with you.” Antonias pointed toward the door. “Let me know as soon as you
find anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
didn’t know anything about server logs, but at least they weren’t calling the
cops to drag me away. I followed Kate past a row of cubicles to a door in the
rear of Tera’s office suite. A sign warned: “SERVER ROOM 2/AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
ONLY.” Kate punched a code into the panel and opened the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><b>* * * </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kate sat
down in front of a wide monitor and began tapping at a keyboard. “Just stand
back and let me work, all right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
room was chilly. Large mainframes stood against the four walls. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
don’t seem surprised by any of this.” I stood behind her, my hands in my
pockets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Clark
tried to explain Portal-2 to me.” She tapped at a keyboard, and the monitor
started showing a stream of numbers and symbols that could have been ancient
Etruscan to me. “I don’t understand the software or how he developed it, but
the idea was to send huge files back and forth seamlessly. I know email seems
instant, but this was even faster and more secure. Clark was adjusting the
setting yesterday, and I was in a meeting, but we lost contact with his server
up in Evanston right around—you know, the time the police said he’d probably
been killed.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did
you know him very well?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
only met him a few times. He was—okay. I wish . . .” She rubbed her nose.
“Okay, here’s a weird thing: We’re still in contact with a Portal-2 interface.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
does that mean?” I leaned over her shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
means the software is still running on a machine somewhere.” She clicked a key.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
his equipment was wrecked.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A
hard drive could still be working, especially if it’s still plugged in.” Kate
bent down, peering at the screen. “Or he could have downloaded it to another
machine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
thought about the CompUniverse victims. And the woman in the coffee shop, where
consultants and would-be novelists on their laptops are practically a cliché.
“Could the software migrate to other computers somehow?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kate
looked at my reflection in her monitor. “Why would it do that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
I think the voarkla attacked people in a computer store and a coffee shop, and
then vanished before anyone could catch it or kill it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
door opened behind us. It was Antonias. “How’s it coming?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kate
looked grim. “I’m trying locate the Portal-2 software on another server, and
then we can shut it down from here. Maybe.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Antonias
twitched. “What if we just delete the software off our system? Get rid of it so
no one can—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
not as simple as dumping it into the trash!” Kate pointed to the lines of code
running across the monitor. “And it’s still running on at least one other hard
drive. If Jurgen’s right, it could have spread across the Internet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
was getting worse and worse. I felt cold sweat under my shirt. Killing the
program could strand Pontoval here—along with the voarkla. But keeping it
online so we could send them back might mean bringing other wheeslings and
voarklas from Ponto’s world here. Or accidentally sending humans over there.
“There must be some way to control it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
glared. “I don’t know the ins and out of the program code. Do you want to find
the documentation and read through it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can’t figure out GPS on my cell phone.” I stepped back. “Just do whatever you
can.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
trying.” She clicked her mouse. “Maybe if you all just—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
that?” Antonias pointed toward her screen. “That doesn’t look like—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
monitor screen was glowing like a fiery red flare. No more numbers and programming
symbols, just a whirlpool of light, swirling around and growing bigger with
each turn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh
shit!” Kate shoved her chair back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
monitor exploded. I reached for the door, but Antonias already had his hand on
the knob, and Kate was swinging around in her chair, blood dripping from a cut
over her left eye. I grabbed for her hand, and then—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
voarkla emerged from a halo of energy floating over the wrecked screen with a
roar that shook the walls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hadn’t seen it before, of course, but the creature couldn’t be anything else.
The voarkla looked like an oversized wolverine, with wide jaws, two long jagged
fangs, and matted gray fur covering powerful muscles. Curved claws extended
from its thick paws. Its breath smelled like a swamp, and its second roar
burned my skin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
voarkla’s eyes were shiny and yellow as it searched the room for prey. I
ducked, pulling Kate down with me as the voarkla lunged forward. I wasn’t
really trying to shield her with my body—the terror wouldn’t let me think that
clearly—but we ended up on the floor, my shoulder over her head, as Antonias
fumbled with the doorknob. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe
his frantic movements attracted its attention. Whatever, the voarkla ignored us
and leaped straight for Antonias as he finally pushed the door open.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stumbled out into the office, but the voarkla was already on top of him, its
claws thrashing as it growled viciously. Antonias screamed again, and someone
nearby shouted in panic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
saw one set of claws rip through his shoulder as the voarkla twisted around,
pinning Antonias beneath its body. Then its head shot down and it clamped its
jaws around his neck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Its
fangs cut the scream off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked over my shoulder at the red halo above the computer. It flickered,
growing wider and then shrinking, a pulsing light without heat floating in the
air. I could hear the voarkla’s snarls as its teeth tore into Antonias’s body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
the hell?” Kate whispered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Voarkla.”
If we could shut down the computer, would it disappear? Or be trapped here with
a human smorgasbord to sample one by one?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Abruptly
the creature’s head rose. Its shoulders heaved as it gasped for breath, and
then it twisted back around to head back into the room. With us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
thought about Rachel, and my parents, and my brother in California. And Pontoval.
But the voarkla wasn’t thinking about us. Instead, as if listening to a signal,
it jumped across the room and then hurled its body back through the glowing
halo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
a loud <u>snap</u>! the halo closed up and vanished, taking the voarkla with
it. The monitor was smashed, and the computer next to it toppled over, lights
winking out. Kate groaned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
she pushed me off of her. “I’m fine, damn it!” She wiped at the cut over her
eye. “But thanks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Any—anytime.”
I didn’t feel like confessing that I’d only been trying to keep out of the
monster’s path. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
the fuck was that?” This came from a tall guy with a beard and a long ponytail,
standing over Antonias’ dead body, shaking with shock. “Kate? Who’s that guy?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“T-Tom
Jurgen.” I got unsteadily to my feet as Kate clambered up on her own. “And that
was a demon from another dimension.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
think I know what happened.” Kate looked at the crashed computer, breathing
hard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
tried to catch my own breath. “Is that good?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe.”
She nodded slowly. “Maybe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b>* * * </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Detective
Elena Dudovich didn’t like me very much. Mostly because my explanations never
fit her definition of crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come
on, Jurgen.” She leaned over Tera’s conference room table, her arms tense. “You
know I can’t put that in my report.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
gulped lukewarm water from a plastic bottle. My hand shook. “So it’ll sound
better if you say a coyote took an elevator up to the 7<sup>th</sup> floor and
snuck into the server room? And then left through the rear exit?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
wanted to slap me. But Kate Asbury was in the room, a bandage on her forehead
and calmer than me. She’d backed up my story, but otherwise stayed quiet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Get
out of here.” Dudovich jabbed a finger at the window, as if hoping I’d leave
that way. “Call me when you've got something that doesn’t sound like a SyFy
movie. You . . .” She waved an arm at Kate. “If you’re smart, you’ll stay away
from this guy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kate
stood up slowly. “Ray was my boss.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dudovich
groaned quietly. “Yeah. Sorry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know.” She looked at me. “We’ve got work to do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right.”
I opened the door for her. “Just try to keep an open mind.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<o:p><b>* * * </b></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I think
parts of the program mimic a magic spell,” Kate told Rachel and me back at my
apartment. Ponto was on the floor at my feet, watching TV and slurping apple
juice from a big jug.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was sitting next to Rachel. “When I told her to keep an open mind, I wasn’t
expecting her to catch on this quick.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rachel’s
eyes darted between the two of us. “You know he’s my boyfriend, right?” She
gets possessive. Sometimes. I squeezed her arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t care about that.” Kate was exasperated. “When I was in college I was part
of a coven. We did the usual magic, but I remember how the spells worked. The
spell is holding the voarkla—is that what you called it?—in this world, somehow
stuck in the network that Clark set up between his computer in Evanston and the
one in our office downtown.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
pointed at Rachel’s laptop. “But the program runs through the Internet, so
sometimes part of it must pop up on a random computer, and that’s when the
voarkla gets out. But it pulls him back. I—I actually summoned it when I was
running the program on our server, and . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
closed her eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
wasn’t your fault,” Rachel said firmly. “That guy Clark brought the voarkla
here in the first place. Anyway, we have to focus on getting rid of the thing.
Right?” She shot a look at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
getting Pontoval back home,” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
looked up from the TV. “Hommme?” Ponto was starting to pick up our language. I
scratched his ears. He seemed to like that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
can’t take the program completely off the Internet,” Kate said. “So the only
thing we can do is find the last server that’s running it and shut it down. The
server at our office burned out when the voarkla went back through, and the one
Clark was using probably did the same thing. But it’s still active on at least
one other computer in the city.” She sat back in her chair and rubbed her
bandage. “We’ve got to find it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then
what?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hommme,”
Ponto murmured. “Home.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b>* * * </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lauren Moore
usually trusted me. I’d done other jobs for her. One of them involved a
background check that had turned up a vampire. (She didn’t hire him.) But she
was legitimately annoyed when I told her we needed the computer Glendon had
been using at her company. And that she might not get it back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
overcame her reluctance when I directed her to an online news report about Tera
Systems. She even helped me disconnect it and load it into my Honda.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ponto
was jumping up and down on my couch when I got back to the apartment. Partly
because he knew he was going home, but mostly from terror of the voarkla. I
couldn’t blame him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I tried to calm him while Kate and Rachel set the computer up on the dining
room table. I felt grateful that he seemed to have mastered the use of the
toilet, and he didn’t break anything while he danced around with growing
anxiety as the computer booted up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”
Kate tapped some keys, biting her lip. “The Portal-2 program is partitioned
off. And it’s . . . password protected. Damn it. I could override that on our
server, but—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Move
over.” Rachel nudged her aside. “And don’t watch what I’m doing. Trade
secrets.” Her fingers moved fast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kate
smiled. “You’re a hacker?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sometimes.
Plus, a witch. You’re not the only one who used to be in a coven. No smartass
comments, Tom!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who,
me?” I handed Pontoval a handful of lettuce from a bowl on the table. “Just let
me know when we’re ready.” Not that I was in any hurry to confront the voarkla
again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
we’re in. Open your eyes now.” Rachel stepped back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
have to talk later.” Kate crossed her arms and examined the screen for ten
seconds. “Okay, you’d better get ready.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Battle
stations!” Rachel blew me a kiss and headed for the bedroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
had a big cardboard box in the corner for Ponto. I picked him up, whispering
some wheesling words that I hoped would keep him calm if I pronounced them
right, and carefully pushed him into the box. Out of sight. We hoped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
picked up my Taser from the table and made sure it was fully charged. Then
Rachel walked out of the bedroom, lugging a sword with both hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kate’s
eyes got wide. “Is one of you compensating for something?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Talk
to him.” Rachel lifted the sword. “Just call me Conana the Lady Barbarian. And
no jokes about chain-mail bikinis, all right?” She gave me a wink.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
forced a smile. “Never entered my mind. Mostly because I’m terrified right
now.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
right. I’m opening the program. This might take a few minutes—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
jumped back as the halo burst into existence above the monitor. Pontoval
squealed. The halo flared bright red, pulsing like a heartbeat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rachel
stood next to me, her arms trembling from the weight of the sword. I clutched
the Taser with both hands. The voarkla moved fast. I’d probably get only one
shot. I didn’t expect the Taser to bring it down, but it might scare or shock the
thing long enough for Rachel to—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
are you doing? Put that thing down before someone gets hurt!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not
the voarkla. A human emerged from the halo and stepped down onto the rug
beneath my table. She was short and dark, and wore a gray robe with grass
stains at the bottom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh
hell. “There’s a voarkla,” I said, pointing over her shoulder toward the
portal. “Be careful! It might . . .” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pontoval
surged from the box with a happy snort and jumped up into the woman’s arms. She
laughed and hugged him as he snuggled against her chest. “Pontoa! Pontoa arkla
u mando! Yi asla n . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ponto
wrapped his long arms around her neck. “Yeeha. Yeeha, limooo.” He closed his
eyes. “Limooo . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
woman shifted him around in her arms. “Who’s in charge here?” she demanded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
exchanged glances. Kate looked ready to volunteer, but Rachel slugged my
shoulder. She was right. It had all started with my case.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
took a cautious step forward. “Tom Jurgen. So who are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
name’s . . . let’s see, what would you understand?” She stroked Ponto’s fur.
“Just call me Limona, is that all right?”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Limonnnnna.”
Pontoval lifted her head and turned his face to me. “Tommm? Tommm!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
smiled. “Ponto. You okay now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
head bobbed up and down. “Yesss.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Limona
gave us a look as stern as a disappointed nun. “I don’t know how Pontoval got
here, but it’s about time he came home. I’ve been looking for him for seven
years.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seven
years since yesterday? Well, it was another dimension—time probably moved
differently there. “But the voarkla—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’ve
taken care of that. He was harder to find. This world is so confusing.” She
slid a foot back and forth on the rug. “The thing you call Goo-goo? It’s a road
without an end. And the Yahooo thing makes no sense at all.” She lifted one lip
in what looked like a smile. “But I—we—are grateful that you took care of
Pontoavallian.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well
. . .” Suddenly I realized that he was leaving. “He’s a good friend. I hope—I
mean . . .” Damn it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
need to close this world off.” Limona glanced back. The halo behind her was
shrinking. “It’s too dangerous for us. You won’t need to worry about us any
more.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But—”
Of course. “Yeah. I get it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you.” Limona stepped back, and the halo expanded to catch her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pontoval
twisted his head to look at me. “Tommm! Tommm?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
waved. “Okay, Ponto. So long.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
waved back. “Soo looong . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
halo collapsed, taking Pontoval and Limona out of our world and back to their
own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kate
dropped into a chair as the monitor went dark. I set the Taser on the counter
and looked at Rachel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
sword lay at her feet. “He was cute.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”
At least he was safe. “Thanks for your help,” I told Kate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“At
least they didn’t destroy another computer.” She tapped the keyboard and began
uninstalling Glendon’s program from the hard drive. “I’ll help you take this
back when I’m finished.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
nodded. “Sorry about your boss.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kate
said nothing as she worked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rachel
picked up the sword, and I followed her to the bedroom with the Taser. We
stowed the weapons safely away, and I rolled up the sheet I’d used to protect
my floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
could get a cat,” Rachel suggested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>We?</i>
I grinned. “Right now I’d settle for some Chinese food.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
kissed my cheek. “I’ll get the menu.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b># # #</b></div>
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John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-23650920474331185672014-11-01T10:52:00.000-07:002014-11-01T10:52:06.982-07:00Prodigal Prince, Ch. 24<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
TWENTY-FOUR:
Quili’s Fire</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You should
rest,” Foxe said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
fine.” Val kept her eyes fixed on the Forward Drive display. She’d planted herself
at the DriveBoard station while Foxe had locked the <u>Quili’s Fire</u> crew in
a storage compartment and hadn’t looked him in the eye once since he’d returned
to the bridge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
raspy, a
tired whisper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How’s
the leg?” Both her legs were stretched out on the NavBoard chair next to her.
He’d had to tear off her slacks above one knee to extract the flechette darts
from her wounded limb, and she’d found a laserclip somewhere to trim the bottom
edge straight and then cut the other leg of her slacks away. The ragged shorts
distracted him and he was trying not to let her notice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
she just gazed at the screen as if avoiding his voice. “I’ll be fine. But I
think you enjoyed fondling my leg when you took the darts out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
remembered the serrated blade he’d taken in his foot during an attack on a
Varrian outpost, and how long it had taken to heal. Val looked stronger now,
less pale. And she was just as irritating, which meant she had to be feeling
better. “You’re welcome.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
ignored his sarcasm. “You figure out where we’re going?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded at the NavBoard screen. “Osiris. It’s a station in the Koldar System.
Tiki picked it at random.” He’d glanced through the database of stored
destinations. Osiris was at the top of the list. At least she hadn’t picked
number two—a point in space just a thousand kilometers from the event horizon
of a black hole.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
looked relieved. “I know it. It’s UnAligned, but civilized. I can trace my
yacht. If it’s not in the Riskannon system—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
wouldn‘t bet on that.” Frique had been scared, but without anyone else around
he’d do what he wanted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
the one who gave control of my ship to that scumsucker. It better be in one
piece.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Didn’t
have much time for options. I was busy coming back for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
blinked, as if shoving that thought aside for now. “You can find us another
ship there while I’m tracing mine—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
you could be gone by the time I get back.” It’s what he’d do. “We could keep
this ship—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
going to space that crew? You can’t leave them locked up in storage forever.
And I don’t trust this matrix. Containment readings are out of synch. We’ll be
lucky if we can transition safely this one time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>I
should have knocked her out with a pain shot</u>, he thought. But she’d been
watching the injectors too closely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was right—about the matrix, and about trying to keep the crew under
control indefinitely. The Tadori captain had wanted to fight, but the rest of
them had been relieved to get away and just as happy to do what he said. He’d
left them some food bars and a few bottles of water, but the storage
compartment didn’t have any sanitation facilities. In just a few hours they’d
get too restless to control, and Foxe wouldn’t bet they couldn’t find some way
out of the storage compartment if they had enough time and anger to think about
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
looked at Val. “You ought to get some rest,” he said again. “We’ll have to work
fast once we reach Osiris.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
don’t know how they’ve jury-rigged their systems. Or what kind of traps they’ve
embedded.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is
this the first ship you've ever hijacked? I’ve done this before. I can keep us
going just fine if I’m not worrying about you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
cocked an eyebrow, still keeping her face from his. “Worrying?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t want to have to lug you around.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
let her legs fall to the deck and spun the chair. The sudden green blaze in her
eyes surprised him. “Then why the gash did you come back for me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
the station was getting blown up.” Alive, she could have talked her way out of
Morine’s mechanized hands. Annoyed them until they let her go. But dead, she’d
be one more face for his nightmares. “Maybe you should thank Shrinn when we
find him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
glared at him, the first time she’d let him see her eyes. “That’s it? Don’t
leave anyone behind? The AW MilForce rule?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
held her gaze. “Don’t talk to me about MilForce.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
left you behind on that planet where you almost died, burned up—”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
thought I was dead.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
if you thought I was dead you’d be sitting on my yacht with Rumav right now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
I thought you were dead . . ..” <u>I’d be chasing Shrinn to the end of the
universe</u>. His reaction surprised him. The thought—and the emotion. He shook
his head. “MilForce left a lot of good people behind any time we had to pull
out. In the resistance we didn’t leave anyone behind—we killed our own so they
wouldn’t be tortured, so they couldn’t talk. I never liked it, but I did it
because . . ..” Why? Because it made sense? Because he didn’t care? “What do
you want from me?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
want—” She stopped herself, rubbed her face, and stared up at him. “I just want
to know if I can trust you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
saved your life. That should give you a hint.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
you’d do the same for any one of your buddies. Whether you like them or not. Is
that it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
tried not to smile. She was afraid of him—his feelings. His motivation. Was he
was in love with her? Or was she afraid that he wasn’t? But Foxe kept his
amusement to himself. He knew how torture could twist a being’s emotions into
something they didn’t recognize. In a day or two she’d go back to despising him
again. In the meantime . . . “I like you fine, if that’s what you’re asking.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
took a deep breath, looking him over. “Okay.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
as much as my pet lizard. His name’s Tingle, he’s a Vizrian shadow lizard, and
he takes care of the bugs and—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shut
up.” Then, to his surprise, she laughed. “Don’t really care about your lizard.
Sorry, but—” She shook her head, smiling, as something he’d said was a relief
to her. “Just<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. . . leave me
alone, all right? I need to rest, I’ll rest. We get to Osiris, I’ll be okay.
Understand?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not
at all. But he nodded. “Whatever you say.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
went to the captain’s seat and sank into it, his muscles still aching from
tension. For a few minutes after securing the crew he’d felt close to collapse.
His heart had pounded and he couldn’t get his breath back, and his sweat had
turned to ice beneath his clothes. Then the dark feeling came, the dread-filled
loathing for the entire universe that always made him clench his fists and
fight the impulse to grab a pulser and end it—his nightmares, his life,
everything. But he’d pulled himself together, mostly because he had to patch up
Val, and he didn’t want her to see the darkness inside him and question his
nerve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
needed rest, too. Maybe more than Val did. But he didn’t dare go to sleep. Not
right now, while he had to watch <u>Quili’s Fire’</u>s systems and crew. And
not until he could face the dreams.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You’re
okay,” Frique murmured, stroking Rumav’s forehead. “We’re okay.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rumav
pushed the hand away weakly, and then his arm fell back down onto the bed like
a bird with a wounded wing. “We’re . . . where . . ..” He opened his eyes,
blinked against the light behind his head, and peered up at Frique in
confusion. “Who—who are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Name’s
Frique.” He sat back and smoothed the blue sheet over Rumav’s naked body. He’d
cleaned him up as best he could in the ridiculously large shower stall before
hauling him to a luxurious bed that could have held them both with room for
more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
ship—some kind of yacht—seemed able to run on its own. He’d only had to issue a
few simple commands to detach and then transition into D-space, although he’d
spent a few moments picking a different destination from the database. Where
the heldash was Riskannon? He’d never heard of it, and he didn’t want Foxe to
catch up with them before he got to know this being they’d rescued from Leda.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
transition had been smooth enough, except for a momentary warning from one of
the boards, a flashing alert that vanished before he could even locate it on
the display. Probably Foxe would have been able to recognize it, or at least
look it up in the logs. But as long as they were safely out of the real
universe, Frique didn’t care. He was alive. Free. And all alone with this
helpless, youthful being.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
. . . Hanbor.” The seven-fingered being struggled to keep his eyes open, and
Frique saw the fear in them. “Where—where are we?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Gryphon
system. For now. Hiding out near a gas giant. We rescued you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
. . . that place? What—” His body shook in a sudden spasm of pain, or the memory
of it. “What happened to me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
rescued you. Me and Foxe. Just in time, too.” He thought of the animalistic
struggle in the access shaft with a shudder of his own—beings beating each
other bloody at the hatches, trying to get to a ship, any ship. They’d
clustered around him as he’d pulled himself toward the tether connection while
lugging the boy’s senseless body in zero-gee, and he’d had to kick and gouge
and hammer at them without losing his grip on the slippery skin as he squirmed
toward the hatch to the ship Foxe had given him. Fortunately someone else
managed to force entry into another ship just as Frique’s arm felt ready to
fall off, and the rest of them swarmed toward it like hungry insects, giving
him the time he needed to open the hatch and then lock it behind them. He
rubbed a bruise on his shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t . . . who are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Frique.”
He patted Rumav’s head. “I’m—I was a tech on Leda.” Relief poured through him
here. Leda was gone. Maybe Morine had managed to make a deal at the last monent,
or maybe not. He didn’t care if they were all dead, the frozen chunks of their
bodies scattered across the nebula. Karsh-3, Littleton, all of them. He tried
not to think about Nakagawai, one of the few he’d sometimes thought of as a
friend. If Littleton was dead, though, or Morine, well—he wouldn’t miss any of
them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“W-water?”
Rumav coughed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
searched the room. Beverage dispenser—he filled a cup and held it for Rumav.
Half of it ran down his chin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
seven demons,” Rumav whispered. “I’m . . . who are you again?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Frique.
We’re on a yacht called, uh, <u>Gemstone</u>. Foxe’s yacht. He let us take it.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Foxe?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
shrugged. “I don’t know. He wanted to get you off Leda, but—I think he’s dead.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
would he . . .?” Rumav looked at the ceiling. “Oh.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing.
More water?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
held the cup again. This time Rumav swallowed it all. Then he rolled to one
side and tried to sit up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
grabbed his shoulder. “You’re still—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
touch me.” He slouched on the bed, bare feet on the thick carpet, breathing
hard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
saved your life.” Frique tried not to stare at Rumav’s thin legs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you. My . . . I’ll make sure you get a reward. I can—” He closed his eyes. “I
can make sure you’ll be taken care of. But right now . . . is there anything I
can wear?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
could shove him back onto the bed. He’d be too weak to resist. This being owed
him. But—the thought of Leda’s dead, floating in cold space, made him feel
suddenly quiet. Maybe later. Maybe never, the way his luck had run lately. But
the kid had mentioned a reward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>You’ll
probably screw me out of that, too</u>, Frique thought. <u>But at least I’m
free. Hell-burn them anyway</u>. “Most of it’s for females. I’ll have to look.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Anything.
Don’t care.” He took a step toward the door, looking queasy. “Then we—after
transition. We’ve got to go somewhere.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’ll
figure it out. Where do you—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Taormika.”
His voice was suddenly firm. Steady. He sounded like a different person. Then
his head slumped. “I thought I was never going to get there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Me
neither. But you did.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can program the coordinates. We’ve got to go there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
turned away. No use trying anything now—“I’ll look for some clothes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-42675070618560094542014-03-30T12:18:00.001-07:002014-03-30T12:18:34.577-07:00Prodigal Prince, Ch. 22-23<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<!--StartFragment-->
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
TWENTY-TWO:
Ready to die</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Foxe felt
it—a shudder in the deck beneath his boots. He shot a look at Frique. “What was
that?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique’s
hairless scalp was glistening with sweat as he helped Foxe move Rumav’s limp
body through the passageway. They’d thrown a green gown around the kid; his
skin was still slippery from the fluids in the crèche, but he was
walking—actually, Rumav was stumbling like a wounded drunk with their arms
around him. The single being they’d encountered while making their way here, a
customer of Morine’s, didn’t care what they were doing. He just walked away
muttering about costs, and Foxe felt relieved at not having to shoot him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
docking junction was down at the end of this corridor. Just a dozen more
meters—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An
alarm began booming around them before the shaking stopped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shista,”
Frique said. “Hull breach.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“ATTENTION!
STATION WILL LOCK DOWN IN THIRTY SECONDS! STATION WILL—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
the voice ceased as if a knife had cut it. The alarm stopped. What the—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
dropped Rumav into Foxe’s arms. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Rumav groaned
as Foxe caught him. His eyes flicked with confusion and fear, then closed again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait!”
Foxe tried to grab at the tech but Frique slipped away. Before Foxe could lower
Rumav safely to the deck he felt a different pounding under his feet. Running.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait!”
He lunged forward and snatched Frique’s ankle. They fell to the deck and Frique
rolled over, kicking frantically at Foxe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
pounding drew closer. Foxe glanced up over his shoulder and saw the two Udorian
males who wanted a son. Their names were Clayte and Tenner, and they running
like panicked urfallo down the passageway. One of the big Udorians kicked
Foxe’s leg by accident as he ran past. The other one jumped over Frique’s arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Good—distraction</u>.
He nudged Frique with his boot. “Move! Fast!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
lugged Rumav down the passageway. Ahead in the junction, he could see the security
andy struggling with the two Udorians. Big as they were, the andy could have
taken both of them down in a few seconds if Tenner hadn’t wrapped himself
around its trunk, pinning its arms down so it couldn’t fire the pulsers
installed beneath its synthskin. The side of his face was bleeding, though—the
andy must have gotten off at least one shot too soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clayte clutched its head, twisting it
from side to side. That rarely worked—most androids had their primary
processing units mounted inside their torsos. But that didn’t matter to Foxe as
long as they kept the andy distracted. Most beings thought androids were
invincible and indestructible, thanks to the marketing techniques of their
Murrani manufacturers. But Foxe had fought them often enough to know where the
vulnerable points were.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
just as Frique reached the junction area, two more andys popped from a
compartment inside a bulkhead, darting forward in search of targets. “Get
down!” Foxe shouted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
bolt of plasma spurted from one android’s palm, hitting Clayte in the back. The
Udorian screamed as his shirt and skin burned away but somehow kept his grip
tight around the andy’s head. Tenner ducked his face behind the andy’s body,
howling in rage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
flattened himself on the deck. With a quick, “Sorry, kid,” Foxe dropped Rumav
and dove toward the second new android. He skidded past its legs and jabbed a
fist up into its back, at the base of where a human spine would be. He felt a
metal disc beneath the synthskin and punched again, and the andy froze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not
for long—the android would reroute its control systems in a second, but the
interruption in signal flow gave Foxe enough time to shove it against the other
andy, knocking its arm away from its aim on Tenner. Foxe kicked himself forward
and slammed against the two andys as hard as he could. Pain lanced his shoulder
but his push knocked both off their feet and onto the deck with twin thuds.
“Get the kid!” he shouted to Frique. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Looking
for Rumav, he saw Clayte slowly collapse, toppling to the deck like a fallen
skywood tree. Clayte stared down at Tenner’s body, his arms still wrapped
around the andy’s torso, and howled in rage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Keep
screaming</u>, Foxe thought as he grabbed the rising arm of one andy and rammed
the heel of his boot down into the other one’s chest. He felt the andy’s
primary system drive crack, and its head flopped to the deck as Foxe jumped to
his feet. But the other android rose up at the same moment, both arms thrust
forward as if intent on crushing Foxe’s body in a lethal embrace.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
lowered his head and pushed himself forward between the android’s outstretched
arms before it could fire a blast from its murderous pulsers. <u>Hit it</u>, he
thought as he reached around the andy’s waist and jabbed his fingers at the
control disc in its back. His blow connected; nothing happened. <u>Damnit to
hellcore</u>! The machine had already rerouted its control after observing
Foxe’s tactics with its partner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
dropped flat and pushed at the andy’s knees. One foot shifted slightly. He
shoved again and the andy fell, crashing to the deck, plasma surging wildly
from its palms. Heart racing, Foxe hurled himself on top of it, slamming both
fists down at the secondary control unit inside the killing machine’s chest. <u>Come
on, damn it, shut down!</u> It raised an arm and Foxe twisted his head, feeling
the plasma sear the back of his neck as he stabbed downward again. This time
something crumpled beneath his knuckles and the andy’s arms dropped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
saw Frique dragging Rumav toward an airlock and felt a rush of relief. Just a
few more seconds to safety. Tenner was kneeling next to Clayte’s body, a
screeching wail keening from his throat. <u>Poor bastard</u> . . .. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>More
footsteps pounded the deck. Foxe staggered to his feet, legs aching, and turned
to face the next rush of security forces. But the beings hurtling into the
junction weren’t security. He saw a young station tech, face pink with fear,
shoving his way past two more human customers who were half-dressed and gasping
for breath as they ran. More followed behind them. Foxe could almost smell
their desperation. Lockdown or not, these beings wanted off the station, and a
tether connection couldn’t hold their ships.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
bear-built security guard called Borr shoved a human female and lumbered
through the throng. Foxe braced himself for an attack. But Borr wasn’t
interested in him, or in slowing the stampede. His eyes were tight slits as he
scoped the area for the nearest open airlock. Getting out, like the rest of
them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
of the fallen andys tried to lift an arm; Borr glared at it and slapped his comsol,
and the android’s eyes went dark. He blinked at Foxe, veered away from him, but
Foxe tripped him with a quick kick and he went skittering across the deck,
clawing for his pulser.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
planted a boot in the center of the guard’s broad back and whipped the cable
from his arm. He slung it around Borr’s throat and pulled until he heard
desperate gasps for air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
going on?” He twisted the cable viciously. His voice shook as he repeated:
“What’s going on?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Attack,”
he grunted. “Mines—all over. They’re going to blow the station. Some piece of
material—they want—let me go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
tightened the cable. The guard screamed as Foxe slipped Borr’s pulser from its
holster. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
do they want?” He pressed the weapon against the back of Borr’s skull, charging
it up with a flick of his thumb.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know! Material . . . in an escape pod, thirty minutes. And someone
named—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Foxe!”
It was Frique, standing at the airlock. “Which tether?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before
Foxe could answer, Borr slid his arms beneath his body and thrust himself
backward, up from the deck. The sudden move gave the cable around his throat
some slack, and he twisted, trying to scramble free. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
dropped the cable and jumped back, knocking into a Ustalli’s flailing tentacles
as it scuttled toward the airlocks. He aimed the pulser at Borr’s body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Foxe,”
Borr whispered, his voice raw. “You skullfucking son of—” Still straining for
breath, he lunged for Foxe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
shot him in the chest. Borr stopped, his feet slipping on the deck, and his
face grew pale. “You—slimesucker . . ..” He closed his eyes and fell, clutching
his chest, and rolled onto his side, curling up like a bug trying to protect
itself. Borr’s shoulders shuddered, then went limp, and he was dead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Idiot</u>.
Foxe turned, peering through the growing crowd of desperate beings trying to
flee. Clients abandoning their dreams of genetically-manipulated children,
station crew just as frantic to leave Leda to its fate, security guards
shooting through anyone unlucky enough to stumble in their path, and at least
one crèche refugee, naked and dripping, staggering with hazy eyes. Shouts of
rage mixed with loud weeping and fists pounding at the airlock hatch. Foxe
smelled the different odors of sweat and excrement from the cascade of
frightened beings, caught the scent of alcohol and a whiff of perfumed
pheromones, but most of all he smelled fear. Death. Desperation. <u>All because
of me</u>, he thought, suddenly angry. What did Shrinn want with him? Why was
he so important now?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
security guard shoved his way to the andy’s desk and began pressing keys. In a
moment the airlock hatch began to rotate, and the cluster of bodies tightened
into a knot as each being fought to be first through the opening. Foxe saw a
pair of shoulders push forward, scraping the sides of the hatch; another body
fall to the side, screaming as the crowd crushed him against the bulkhead in
their desperation to escape.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
realized he was looking for Val in the churning mess of beings. But she wasn’t
coming. They had to leave. Now. He spotted Frique, looking angry and scared,
his hands hooked under Rumav’s arms and his hairless skin slick sweat. Foxe ran
toward them, pushing two beings in Leda uniforms out of his path. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
pointed to the open lock. “Third tether. Get him in there and bring the systems
online.” He blinked, bringing back the access code Val had set up for him.
“It’s Omega 357 Epsilon, slash Foxe. F-O-X-E. Go! I’m right behind you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
glared at him. His arms were trembling with fatigue and his face was close to
total panic. But Foxe’s order, and the hope of getting free of the station,
gave him a final jolt of energy. He lurched toward the lock. “Come on, boy. At
least the tether will be zero-gee.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
took one last look up the passageway. No Val. Damn it. Damn it to hellcore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are
you coming?” Frique barked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How
much time did she have? Not enough. Not nearly enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are
you any kind of a pilot?” Foxe asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can handle a NavBoard. I ran the bridge on the last ship when the boss—why are
you asking . . . ?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait
ten minutes for me,” he heard himself say. “Then leave if I’m not there. Set
the NavBoard for Riskannon, it’ll be in the database. Take him.” He patted
Rumav’s arm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
are you going to do?” Frique demanded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everything
seemed clear now; his mind was quiet, his muscles relaxed despite the distant
thump of pain in his shoulder and his neck. It was the kind of peace he only
felt when he got ready to die.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
get going,” he said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Without
another word, Frique began dragging Rumav toward the airlock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
forced a deep breath into his body, letting it focus him. No time for anger. Thirty
minutes. Fifteen by now. Time was sliding down the event horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Damn it to hellcore,” he muttered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Foxe launched himself against the surge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="ALL" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
TWENTY-THREE:
Tricks </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Val trembled
as she fought the pleasure rippling through her body. <u>No, no, go, don’t let
it</u>— And then the sensations vanished.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
sudden emptiness made her scream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She’d
been tortured by Lakach bandits with dull knifes and rough rope. Still had
those scars. Llanos Cartel dealer had skulljacked her brain, locking her mind in
cold silence that seemed to last for centuries. She’d been threatened with gang
rape by the Dragonlords of the Eighth Order, but fortunately the First Lord
needed almost six days to achieve a full erection, and she’d managed to escape
while his massive organs—three of them—were still limp. But the fear had taken
root in her memory. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through
it all, she’d survived because she could endured pain and fear and stay sane.
She could handle torture, at least for a while.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
this wasn’t pain. And—<u>kitt</u>!—she didn’t want to escape it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every
time Azid withdrew the claw from her arm the pleasure stopped, and she felt as
if she was falling into a pit of frustrated desire with no bottom. Her rational
mind was a whisper in a thunderstorm of physical need. She had to tell him. She
couldn’t. She wanted to. She would—she knew that. Sooner or later . . . sooner
. . . now! No. Yes! She’d talk. She’d do anything. But no, she had to wait.
Give Foxe as much time as possible, a chance—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
want to answer,” Azid urged. His voice was soft, soothing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,”
she said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then
tell me. And you can have it all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
took a deep breath. “I—I told you,” she grunted. “Ben tried to rape me. I just
wanted to see the crèche . . ..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
hissed sadly. “No more pleasure, then.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
wanted to beg him to touch her again, but instead she clenched her teeth,
gasping in frustration. The intake of air in her throat cleared her mind a
little. Just enough to cut a line between her desire for more pleasure and her
conscious judgment. The longer he held off—the more he denied what she ached
for, damn it, she wanted it!—the easier it would be to keep fighting. Without
the surge of pleasure from his claw she wouldn’t have to face the crushing
disappointment that came when he pulled it back. In a few minutes she might get
more pleasure, enough to make it—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
door slid open, and Val cursed silently. An interruption meant she’d have to
wait longer for Azid to touch her again, to give her—<u>No! Kitt</u>! She
hunched forward and took another deep breath, resting her face in her hands. At
least they hadn’t restrained her yet. Azid was armed, and by now she was too
helpless with lust to think about breaking free. What did Morine want?<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Go
away</u>, Val thought. <u>Let me take it once more. Please</u>.<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Azid
stepped back, and his arm slipped back to its normal length. “We‘re very close—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Morine’s
eyes burning with dark fire. Her biomech fingers looked like daggers. “Who are
you?” she demanded. “And Foxe? Who?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”
Val blinked, sincerely confused.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Azid’s
eyestalks twitched. “What’s going on?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’re
bombing Leda!” She looked ready to claw Azid. “My Leda! Antimatter mines!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Gods
and demons . . ..” Half his eyestalks flicked toward the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
yanked the nerveblade from Azid’s belt. Fingers curled tightly around the
handle, she marched toward Val’s face. “What was in that crèche?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know what—” <u>Was</u>? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
did you take it? That material, where is it?” She activated the blade, creating
a thin silver beam that glittered from its handle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Where
. . . ? Rumav was out of the crèche? How?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe.
Of course. He’d done something right. <u>Probably an accident</u>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
shook her head. “I just don’t know—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Morine
stabbed the nerveblade at Val’s eye.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
remembered that they hadn’t closed the chair’s restraints. Her arms were free.
She reacted by instinct, blocking Morine’s arm and pushing the beam off target.
Morine stumbled back, reaching for her dartwand, her face choked with rage. But
Azid stepped forward at the same moment and they collided. It gave Val just the
chance she needed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pushing
off from the chair, she launched a high kick that connected with Morine’s
shoulder. Morine fell back into Azid’s arms. With a curse the Venzoid shoved
her away, reaching down for one of the neutron pistols strapped to his leg. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
jerked forward, hitting Azid’s chest with her bent arm. She tackled him to the
deck, and his roar of anger shook her body. The breath from his belly smelled like
spoiled protein cubes and fried eggs. She grabbed at his wrist as he fumbled
for the neutron weapon, and slammed his hand down against the deck. The weapon
skittered away, but Azid brought another arm around and punched her face like a
hammer. Stars exploded in her eyes, yellow and white, and the blow rocked her.
She shoved down on Azid’s chest and thrust herself to her feet, snapping her
heel down on another one of his three hands as it clutched at a flechette
pistol on his other leg.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Morine
had her dartwand in her fist. “All right, bitchlicker,” Morine growling,
breathing heavily. “Stop it right now—” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
blast from the door caught Val by surprise. Morine never saw it—a bolt of
plasma that burned into her spine. She opened her mouth, tried to scream, but
she dropped before her lungs could draw the last breath she needed. Her biomech
hands flinched, searching for signals from her brain, but she was already so
close to dead that her fingers could do nothing but clench empty air.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
stood in the doorway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Blood
on his sleeves, sweat on his face. His eyes flicked across Val’s body for
injuries, and his gaze made her feel . . . warm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
he turned his weapon and shot Azid as he scrambled across the deck. The blast
incinerated his eyestalks, and then he pumped a second bolt into the gaping
mouth in the Venzoid’s belly. An odor worse than the stench of his breath burst
in the air, and a puddle of fluid spread in a black sticky circle around his
body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
waved an arm. “Come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
looked down at Azid with a stab of regret for the pleasure she’d never receive
from him. Disgusted with herself, she leaned down for Azid’s neutron pistol.
“Well, you've screwed up everything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
I could see them begging for mercy. We’ve got maybe eight minutes before—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know. Who is it? Shrinn?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Probably.
I killed some of his people back on Crystal Rendezvous. Didn’t think he’d take
it so—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where’s
Rumav?” She jumped around the pool spreading around Azid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your
ship. Probably in D-space by now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
gave him my ship?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Him
and a tech named Frique, and I trust him less than a leechworm, but I had to
get Rumav out of here as fast as I could if I was going to—” He cut off his
words.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Rescue
me?” The skin of her face felt suddenly warm, and one of her legs twitched.
Probably just the aftereffects of Azid’s pleasure torture. “Remind me to thank
you. I might forget.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Buy
me a drink sometime. Let’s get out of here.” He peered through the doorway.
“Clear. Everyone’s fighting their way off.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
came up behind him. “Then let’s find another ship fast.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
good thinking.” He pointed down the passageway. “There’s a docking port that
direction. Come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Right behind—ahhh!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pain
ripped through her leg like a jagged knife. <u>Mother of suns</u>! Her knee
buckled and she tumbled forward, cursing more in surprise than pain. Foxe
whirled around, and the expression on his face scared her more than any of
Morine’s threats had. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
of Azid’s arms was trembling centimeters above the floor, clutching a flechette
weapon that spit a stream of small metallic darts across the room. Some hit the
ceiling, some sank into Morine’s flesh. Foxe’s arm moved like a whip, and the
pulser flashed. Val saw the small shooter roll across the deck, but Foxe kept
firing, one pulse after another, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes cold and
pale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
he stopped, Azid’s body was a lump of charred black tissue. Foxe knelt next to
her, breathing hard, and ran his hand over the wound in her leg. Blood seeped
onto his fingers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Think
he’s dead now,” Val said, her teeth tight, willing the medplant in her body to
dull the pain. Sometimes it worked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
don’t have time to get the darts out. Can you walk?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can handle a little pain.” She pushed against the deck and stood, her leg
steady. “Let’s go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are
you all right?” He showed more concern than she’d ever seen in him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
have time.” Her first step toward the door was a stagger; the second one was
smoother. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
fired another blast at Morine’s corpse and whispered an insult she didn’t
catch, then followed her into the passageway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
walking improved with each step, but she knew they’d have to pull the
flechettes out soon. The medplant could only delay infection for a few hours.
Of course, they could both be dead in a few minutes. That clarified priorities.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
reached a turn in the corridor, but Foxe gripped her shoulder. “Wait,” he
whispered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure.
We’ve got time unlimited.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
ignored her as he crouched and leaned around the corner. “Okay. Come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Around
the turn they stepped through an opening onto a nine-meter square platform. A
vertical shaft extended several hundred meters above and below them. Chest-high
rails guarded the platform’s edge, but they swung open on either corner. A lift
on one corner and a ladder opposite allowed beings to reach airlock hatches
that were spaced every thirty meters up and down the shaft. Most of the hatches
were wide open—someone had obviously overcome the lockdown protocols here, too.
Those ships had sailed. Three were shut and locked, two above them and one
below.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
pushed the railing open to the lift. “Go up. I’ll cover us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
took my handcomp.” Its hackware was state of the art, but the security andy had
taken it away before shoving her into the interrogation room. Opening a hatch
without access codes in the time they had was a roll of the dice—one roll, live
or die.<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
patted the gameplayer clipped to his belt. “All right—you cover us.” He stepped
onto the lift.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Footsteps.
She lifted Azid’s neutron pistol. “Foxe . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right.”
He moved from the lift as two beings raced through the doorway onto the
platform. One was human, male, red-faced and gasping from fear and exertion.
Behind him came a gray-skinned Narixian female, her face calm, as if she were
only late for afternoon tea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
skidded to a halt as they saw the weapons pointed at them. The red-faced human
looked ready to pass out. “Wha—what . . ..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Take
us on your ship,” Foxe said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Narixian stiffened her spine. “That’s imp—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
shot her before she could finish the word. The blast hit her in the middle of
the chest, and she staggered back one step as if trying to escape. Then she
dropped flat on her face, one arm dangling over the shaft. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
human looked from Foxe to Val and then back. “You didn’t have to—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shut
up,” Val ordered. Part of her agreed with him, but mostly, she realized, she
was just glad Foxe wasn’t wasting time. “Just take us.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
right, just a second . . .” He reached for his belt. Foxe caught his arm and
jammed the pulser into his neck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tricks
get you killed,” he growled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They crowded onto the lift. “What’s your
name?” Val asked as they ascended.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Lars.
L-Lars Highcliffe. This is—they won’t—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
get us on your ship,” Foxe said. “We’ll worry about your friends.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
lift came to a stop at the second closed hatch. Foxe pushed Highcliffe onto a
narrow ledge. “You know what to do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Highcliffe’s
hands trembled, but he slipped a keychip from his pocket and pushed it into the
slot. Time was running out for all of them. He tapped the entry code with quick
fingers</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
hatch popped outward and they crammed into the airlock. A secondary station
hatch stood open, but the ship’s own hatch just behind it was closed, a
blinking red light warning of imminent departure. Highcliffe punched in another
code, breathing so hard Val was afraid he’d hyperventilate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
ship hatch remained shut. Highcliffe entered the code again, and then pushed a
button above the pad. “It’s me! Lars! Open up!” He began tapping the entry code
again, his fingers frantic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Highcliffe?”
The voice was impatient. No surprise there. “What the nine hells—get on board!
Where’s Pillek?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She’s—”
He flinched as Foxe pushed the snout of the pulser into his back. “Security
andys. They got her. Let me in!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come
on!” The hatch swung inward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
shoved him forward. Highcliffe tripped against the foot of the hatch and sprawled
across the deck with a whimper. Before Val could follow, Foxe pushed her to one
side and opened fire, spraying plasma across the entryway. She heard a loud
curse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it faded into a groan,
Foxe glanced at her and then stepped over Highcliffe’s legs into the ship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,”
he said. “Come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside
a human male lay on the deck, bleeding from his left side but still alive and
moaning. The entryway was a small, narrow space, with monitors on the bulkheads
for atmosphere, pressure, temperature, and other factors. A storage compartment
was marked “Exo.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cover
the door.” Foxe hauled Highcliffe through the hatch. Val ignored the wounded
human’s gasps of pain as Foxe secured the hatch, her eyes and ears on the
passageway beyond.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Arno?
Is Lars on board?” The voice came from a comm unit in the bulkhead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Answer,”
Foxe ordered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
here! Let’s go!” Highcliffe shouted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hatch
reads secure. Detaching in fifteen . . . what the nine hells is that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
looked at Foxe. He shrugged, and kicked Highcliffe’s arm. “Get us to the
bridge. Now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
got to his feet faster than Val expected, still panting anxiously, and
scampered through the inner hatch as if expecting Foxe to shoot him in the
back. <u>Not an unreasonable worry</u>, she thought. The man was ruthless. It
scared her—and made her feel a little more secure. And feel . . . <u>not now!
Kitt!</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She felt engines humming beneath her
shoes, and the slight shudder of the ship pulling away from the docking clamps.
The passageway was empty, and its pale yellow walls needed fresh paint.
Highcliffe stumbled once but Foxe caught him, and after huffing and puffing for
a few dozen meters he stopped and pointed to a step of steps. “Up there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They’d
hear his words. She expected a shout, or at least a hello, but before she could
wonder about the bridge crew’s lack of curiosity Foxe hammered up the steps,
pulser high in his hand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
leg stabbed her as she hopped up after him. Another pulser blast burst in the
air, but no cries of pain answered it. When she reached the small circular
bridge she saw four beings standing at different stations and a burning hole in
one chair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
size and shape of the bridge told her they were on a Cougar-class transport,
not much larger than her yacht. Where was her yacht? She sent that thought away
as she looked over the crew. Two humans, one male and one female, and a
Rann-dishii, all of them more concerned with their boards than with Foxe’s
attack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
the command board a tall being stood, eyes stretched wide with anger. His blue face
looked familiar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
the fugue are you?” he demanded, and although she’d never heard the voice
before she realized where she’d seen him now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tadori.
<u>That</u> Tadori. “<u>Quili’s Fire</u>,” she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Does
that matter?” Foxe pointed his weapon. “Station’s going to blow. Let’s go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Tadori’s skin darkened from blue to black as his anger grew. Then it faded as
he examined the pulser. His eyes began to shrink back to a calm, normal radius.
“Skrag your soul,” he hissed, then turned to the Rann-dishii at the NavBoard.
“Detach and prepare for transition.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Skrag
his soul,” the Rann-dishii agreed, but he began entering commands into the
board.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
we’ve got a tag.” This came from a human on the SurveyBoard with sweat on the
back of his skinny neck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shrinn,
obviously. “Dump it,” Val said. “Scour your hull—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“that’ll
take ten minutes, maybe more. Are we going to wait here for the station to go
nova?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s
deal with that later,” Foxe snapped. “Get us off the station now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
right,” the Tadori said, his face tense.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is
your Forward drive online?” Foxe asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course, but—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then
transition. Right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
can’t be serious,” the Tadori said. “We’re right next to Leda.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you defectives want to get blown up?” Val jabbed a finger toward the hatch. “Any
second now we’ll lose any chance we have of getting out of here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
smiled. “Better do what she says.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Skrag both your souls,” the Tadori said. “Begin the matrix sequence.
Pillek—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She’s
dead,” Highcliffe said, looking at Foxe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Tadori looked ready to leap forward at Foxe, pulser or no pulser, but he
restrained himself with an effort. “Tiki . . ..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Beginning
matrix sequence,” the female said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
ship suddenly lurched. Val tumbled to the deck, cursing, and almost lost the
neutron pistol.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
station is going,” the human male said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
it!” Foxe ordered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
ship seemed to roll, and Val’s stomach churned with the familiar sensation of
transition to D-space. The whirling, twisting confusion inside her body lasted
longer than it should have, and for a moment she was certain something had gone
wrong—the mine hadn’t been repelled, or Leda had blown too soon, or the matrix
had missed an atom of matter or antimatter in its field. She was going to die. <u>Kitt!</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
they were through. Val opened her eyes, and saw Foxe standing over her,
whispering something with urgent intensity. He stopped when she took a breath,
and his face relaxed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
all right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
fine.” She sat up, and the ship spun around her again, but it was just pain
mixed with relief.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pathway
stable,” Tiki said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe’s
arm jerked up, the pulser pointed at the Tadori. “Don’t try anything. Tricks
get you killed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
killed Pillek,” Highcliffe said. “And he shot Arno, I don’t know if he’s—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shut
up. Everyone on the deck, face down. Now!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Tadori knelt, but his face remained defiant. “I know you. Crystal Rendezvous, I
saw you—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ancient
history,” Foxe said. But she could hear the anger in his voice. <u>Quili’s Fire</u>
had brought Rumav here. Brought them here. Brought Shrinn. “Just stay out of my
way and nobody else has to get hurt.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
about Arno?” Highcliffe was on the deck, hands behind his back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
sooner you’re secure, the quicker I can check on him. Speaking of . . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He swept the
pulser across the bridge. “How many more on board?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No
one answered. They didn’t look ready to die, exactly, but they were trying
their best to show him that they hadn’t surrendered yet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
fired a burst of plasma into the deck next to Tiki’s foot. “There’ll be one
less in two seconds,” he said. “Who’s in the engine room? Who runs Forward
drive?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
was Pillek’s job,” Highcliffe muttered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A
ship this type wouldn’t need a big crew,” Val said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’ll
see.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
grabbed the edge of a chair and pulled herself up. Her leg buckled, and swung
the chair around to plant her butt in it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
wanted to sleep. Now that life seemed a little more permanent, the pain<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>neutralizers were making her drowsy.
But they had too much work to do. Check the Forward drive’s parameters to make
sure the matrix was stable. Examine the NavBoard to determine the pathway and
take control of the ship once they transitioned. Sweep the ship systems for
traps. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Keep an eye on them while I look for a
brig.” He pointed to her neutron pistol. “Don’t give anyone a chance to try
anything. Don’t let them talk to each other, or you. Don’t be afraid to—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
afraid of anything,” she said, her voice low. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded. “Thanks. For taking care of the mine. I’ll take a look at your leg as
soon as we’re secure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
fine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded again. Something in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. It hadn’t been
there when Leda was about to explode. Looked like concern. Worry. For her?<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
he turned, and she heard a sigh. “Still alive,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
sounded almost disappointed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’ll
find him.” Val wondered why she felt the need to reassure him. Foxe was
arrogant and annoying, but he could obviously take care of himself. “I can
locate <u>Gemstone</u> anywhere in the galaxy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I just hope Shrinn didn’t plant a mine of her.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Did
he just call Gemstone <u>her</u>? Foxe didn’t seem the type. But Val shook her
head. “High-integrity hull mesh. It’ll detect any mine that attaches itself,
even if it drills in. And throw it off.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Must
be nice to be rich. What about tags?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like
that one said—” She gestured toward the SurveyBoard human. “Tags are small.
Scouring takes time. He’ll be able to track her.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then
we’d better be fast.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
nodded. “Yeah. We better.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Leda died in
minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
first SP-2s detonated in sequence, a ripple of miniature supernovas bursting
across the station’s hull, tiny but destructive needles of energy flaring and
then vanishing in less than a half-second. The structural forcefields
collapsed, and sheets of oxygen shot from the long rupture, a steady stream of
gas that expanded into thick billowing waves as the gash cracked across the
station’s surface. Huge chunks of the hull ripped free, whirling into the
vacuum.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
the secondary mines fell inward through the long gap created by the SP-2s on
the hull, and their explosions a moment afterward tore through the interior
bulkheads and ignited the atmosphere inside. Fire roared silently through the
decks, burning away the remaining oxygen as it tried to escape into the cold
void. The walls began to break up, throwing off white-hot chunks of metal that
whirled into space, quickly fading into black shadows against the dazzling
brilliance of the nebula dust.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
ships surrounding the station fought desperately to engage their engines and
gain a safe distance. Some made the D-space transition; others were destroyed,
shattered by the debris spinning away from the center of the firestorm,
spilling their machinery and inhabitants into oblivion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
moments it was done. A few final bubbles of atmosphere coughed up out of the
empty bulk. They dissipated in seconds, like a flickering meteor hurtling down
from the night sky toward its rocky doom. Shards of the station began drifting
away, dead rats floating on a roiling sea. Maybe a few compartments deep inside
Leda remained pressurized; perhaps some of the crèches hadn’t been damaged; a
few zygotes and fetuses might have survived inside their gestation tanks. But
Leda was gone. In less than a standard day the Sorresana Nebula would be empty
of life once again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
station is destroyed.” Mateon’s voice was quiet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Silence
dominated the deck. His crew had done their duty, but the complete destruction
of a station full of living, sentient beings wasn’t something to celebrate.
Even when it had to be done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>It
had to be done</u>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Begin
a survey on the wreckage,” Shrinn ordered. Videos of a ruined station wouldn’t
satisfy Darel, not without—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Declannes straightened his neck, looking nervous but determined. “Sir, I
have an active tag from . . . Valeria Lynd’s vessel.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An
active tag meant—escape. How? “Where is the ship?” he demanded. This wouldn’t
have happened with Lanesh here. Seven hells, could he depend on anyone to do
their jobs?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Teska-2,”
Declannes said. “One hundred thirty light years . . .” His voice trailed off.
“It’s gone again.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Shrinn’s jaw trembled as he clenched. Damn it, he’d ordered—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tracking
indicates the mine detonated less than a hundred meters from the station.” This
came from Mateon. “Somehow the ship—it must have flung the mine free. They
could have installed a defensive hull mesh that—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ve got it. Hawk Beta. Three thousand light years.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Someone could have stolen it.” Aje stood in the doorway. Watching.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“And detached the mine? Hacked their NavBoard in a matter of minutes?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“The mine detection could have been automatic,” Mateon said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not the NavBoard,” Declannes said. “I tried to access it with everything
I’ve got. Without the right passwords, it’s solid. It’s got to be an evasive
maneuver.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Maybe they’re injured,” Aje said. “They need time in D-space.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Foxe would take Rumav straight back to Riskannon. Lynd’s ship was
flitting randomly across the galaxy didn’t make any sense. Unless . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
He stared at the shattered remnants of Leda on the screen. “Start the
survey,” he ordered. “Keep tracking the ship. Keep my updated on its location.
They may be trying to lead us away. We need to check the debris.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, sir.” Declannes opened another window on his board.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Let me know if the ship remains in any one place for longer than fifteen
minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Keep the
Forward Drive online. I want to be ready for transition on my order.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sir.”
Declannes gave an affirmative nod.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aje
had gone. Maybe he disagreed with Shrinn’s orders. But Shrinn couldn’t go
rushing through the galaxy on a pointless chase. Patience before swift action
led to victory. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aje
understood that. They all did.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-76831676613726968712014-03-09T11:21:00.000-07:002014-03-09T11:21:03.409-07:00Engaging with authors: A few random thoughts<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’ve been
thinking a lot about how I engage with authors lately.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
From the
1980s through the mid-2000s, I knew a lot of local mystery writers. I belonged
to the Mystery Writers of America (associate member) and went to all the
monthly meetings, and met people like Sara Paretsky, Barbara D’Amato, Sam
Reaves, and others—people who’d published novels and were happy to hang out
with wannabes like me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And of
course I bought and read their books, and got them autographed. Part of the
reason—to be a little cynical about it—so they might feel obligated to buy my
books if I ever got published. But mostly because I genuinely liked their
writing and valued their friendship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I was
always aware that I was friends with their authors. I would picture them in key
roles, hear their voices narrating, and think about how they approached this
scene or that character. Which made for a somewhat different experience than
reading something by Robert Parker or Nevada Barr.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
All of this
was before the Internet, of course. Now that I’m reading mostly science
fiction, I engage with authors by obsessively reading their blogs. It’s similar
in some ways, except that they don’t know who I am. I might occasionally post a
comment, but generally I lurk and wait for entertaining flame wars to break out.
(“You’re an idiot!” “No, <b>YOU’RE</b> an idiot!” “You’re a bigger idiot!”) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But still,
it’s a connection to the author. I worry that if I’m ever at a convention and
John Scalzi walks into an elevator, I’ll casually say something like, “Hey,
John, how are Krissy and Athena?” forgetting that he’ll have no idea who this
guy and why I’m asking about his family like a stalker. And then he’ll call
security.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At Windycon
last fall, Jim C. Hines, a fantasy author who was Guest of Honor, was walking
down the hall, and I was <b>THIS CLOSE</b> to saying “Hi, Jim, good to see you!” But I
didn’t. I should have, because I’m sure he would have been gracious; he seems
very nice on his blog and in person. But I realized he wouldn’t have the
slightest idea who I was, and that might be awkward for both of us. Plus, I’m a
coward. But I did go to a reading he gave and got a book of his autographed
later, and he was indeed very nice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
(I will
mention that I did force myself to ask George R.R. Martin if I could take his
picture at WorldCon two years ago. He agreed, but seemed irritated. Fortunately
the picture was fine, because there was<b> NO WAY</b> I would have had the nerve to
ask for a do-over.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyway, I
think about this because I’m frequently doing the same thing now that I did in
my MWA days—choosing the books I read because of my “relationship” with the
author. I don’t read a lot of fantasy, but I read Jim C. Hines’ books because I
like him and his blog. I’d read Scalzi anyway, because he mostly writes the
sort of space opera SF I like, but my enjoyment also has an element of personal
support for him, especially since his political opinions and mine mesh pretty
closely. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I do make a
point of looking for new authors as much as I can, so I hope it all balances
out. And I try to be open-minded about books by authors I know I disagree with,
or who just seem to be jerks online. In my MWA days, I didn’t love every member
I met, but I did try to read at least one of their books or stories in the
interest of fairness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I do my best
not to read a book with my mind on whether the writer is liberal, conservative,
nice to animals, or awful to panhandlers in the street. I’d probably be less
annoyed with an author promoting a left-wing agenda than one who clobbers me
with visions of a libertarian utopia, but in the end I’m likely to be irritated
either way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’m not
leading up to any grand point here. Just trying to remind myself to keep an
open mindabout what I read. Because everyone should.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-66082369045452135672014-02-16T11:32:00.001-08:002014-02-16T11:32:57.170-08:00Blame the polar vortex<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So it’s been
a few months since I posted anything new and original. I hope you've all been
enjoying the chapters of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prodigal Prince</i>
I’ve been posting one by one (or two by two), even though I’m doing it far too
slowly and inconsistently. The novel is actually finished (in the sense that
I’ve written the last chapter and rewritten and revised and—I hope—improved the
thing over time), so I really have no excuse for not putting chapters up more
often. Except the polar vortex, because right now I’m blaming that for
everything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For those of
you following my life and attempts at a writing career, here are a few glimpses
of what’s been going on:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">• Conventions.</b> I went to Capricon a few
weeks ago, a local SF convention in Wheeling, Ill. I typically go to two
conventions a few, both close to home: Capricon in February and Windycon in
November. I’m getting up my nerve to volunteer to speak on a few panels. I’ve
realized that I can speak more or less authoritatively on Star Trek, Doctor
Who, Firefly/Serenity, and the challenge of writing every day whether you feel
like it not, since that’s my actual day job. So when Windycon starts looming on
the horizon, I’m going to put myself out there. Or chicken out. We’ll see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">• Books.</b> I’m going to recommend a book,
with one caveat: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Historian</i>, by
Elizabeth Kostova. It’s a novel about Dracula, in which three generations of
historians become obsessed by the possibility that Vlad the Impaler is a
vampire, still “alive,” and still dangerous. The book follows three separate
but interconnection stories as each main character attempts to track Dracula
down in Eastern Europe. Very well-researched and well-written, lots of
atmosphere, lots of history.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The caveat?</i> I stopped the book about
halfway through. It’s very long, and told in an epistolary format (letters and
more letters), much like the original <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dracula</i>
by Bram Stoker. And while it did hold my interest as far as I got, I decided
there were other books I wanted to read soon, and this would have taken me
another two or three weeks (reading for an hour at bedtime, which is my “serious”
reading, as opposed to the books I read on the bus). So I gave up, not because
I didn’t like it, but I was getting too impatient for the payoff. Still, if you
have the time, and like Dracula, I recommend the book.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">• Writing.</b> I’m sending my urban fantasy
novel<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, A Bar Called Revelations</i>, out
to another major publisher. We’ll see what happens (and how long it takes).
After that I’ll probably start seriously researching small presses. And I’m
working on my other urban fantasy novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Black Guard</i>, which is going very quickly in the first draft, probably
because I don’t really have any sort of an outline. I’m just making it up as I
go along, veering from one action scene to the next. Great fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thanks for
your patience, and enjoy the latest installment of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prodigal Prince</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-84512307661462629052014-02-16T11:30:00.000-08:002014-02-16T11:30:15.875-08:00Prodigal Prince, Ch. 20-21<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
TWENTY: Prey</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s here,”
Ben said. “Wait and let me check there’s no one in there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hurry,”
Val told him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
was nervous again, breathing as shallowly as he had when taking her to Station
4. Something about his behavior was wrong, she realized, but she didn’t have
time to analyze it. She had to watch him punch in the codes so she could use
them herself if she needed to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nobody,”
he said. “Morine was here an hour ago but she left. It’s safe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s
go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben—”
She bit her lip. “It’ll be all right. Just let me take a look at it. You won’t
get in any trouble. I promise.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”
He entered the unlock code and the door slid open.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Creches
filled the room—ten of them, translucent boxes on gray pedestals, monitors
blinking at the foot of each one, cables and tubes snaking in and out, medical
instruments set into cradles around the sides. Harsh white lighttubes in the
ceiling emphasized the sterility of the chamber. The air tasted crisp and
clean, but that just made the atmosphere feel that much more monstrous. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside
the nearest crèche she saw a humanoid floating within a cloud of hazy pink gas,
as still as a corpse, probes and needles sticking its body at a dozen points.
The number 387 glowed in the monitor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Who
were you</u>? Val wondered. <u>How long have you been here? If I took you of
the tank, how long would you survive</u>? For a moment she toyed with the
impulse to start opening the crèches and free all of them, or at least as many
as she could fit in her yacht. No one deserved this half-life, not even the
beings who were doing this to them. Even if they died within minutes, a clean
death would be better for all of them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
she had a job to concentrate on. Maybe when she was finished she could transmit
the location to AW and let them come in and take the station. <u>Yeah, that’ll
happen soon</u>. She had to get Rumav out of here. The others were—not her
problem.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
is Materials Management Three,” Ben said. “It should be right over here.” He
put a hand on her elbow—the first time he’d touched her. His grip was firmer
than she expected, but she let him lead her across the room to a crèche in the
corner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
one’s empty,” she said. The monitor was dark, the tank clear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
I mean—this one.” He pulled her around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
monitor read 1682. <u>Wrong number</u>. She felt his hand running up her arm
and in a flash realized that she’d made a mistake. Ben’s nerves weren’t fear,
but excitement. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
twisted her arm, yanking it free of Ben’s fingers. He lunged forward faster
than she expected, as if it were part of his plan, and wrapped his arms around
her waist. They tumbled to the deck. She felt his breath against her chest as
they hit the hard surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben
was on top. Fortunately he wasn’t very heavy, and with a grunt she was able to
push him off her body. She chopped her hand across his neck. He yelped, but
instead of crawling away he pushed himself forward and rammed his head into her
stomach. Hard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Spawn
of a</u>— Val couldn’t breathe. For a moment she struggled for air, gasping
helplessly, and then Ben reared up and slapped her face. Bright lights flooded
her eyes, and her face stung as if burned by a plasma flare.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
kicked, her knee slamming into his hip with bone-shattering force. Ben
scampered away, stumbling on his feet. Val launched herself at him, intent on
taking him out as quickly as possible. <u>No time for games</u>. But he ducked
down as she flew forward and caught her ankle in his hands and yanked. Her
shoulder rammed into the deck, and Ben jumped on her again with a frustrated
grunt. Val felt a hand on her neck and another one ripping at her shirt, his
fingers grasping at her chest. “Don’t . . . don’t . . .,” he whispered, and she
felt his breath on her cheek, hot and stinking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
butted her head up into his face. She felt his nose crumple and heard another
yelp, softer and angrier than before. But he stayed on top of her, his hand
tightening around her neck, sending shocks of pain shooting down her spine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m—sorry,”
he hissed. “You just—can’t—know what—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anger
flooded her body, and Val shoved an elbow into Ben’s side. A rib cracked. His
grip on her neck loosened. “No!” he shouted. Val rolled off her shoulder and
scissored her legs around his hips, flipping him onto his back. She sprang to
her feet and aimed at kick at his face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben
curled up into a ball, blood dripping from his nose, weeping with a pleading
wail in his voice. “No, no, please . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
changed her mind and drove the side of her foot into his shoulder. He
shuddered, clutching his nose, and lay still. Crying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
caught her breath and straightened her blouse, staring down at him. <u>Pathetic</u>,
she thought. <u>Piece of horny trash. I could rip off his</u>—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
she stopped and took a deep breath. “Ben? Ben!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wh-what?”
He pressed his face against the deck, trembling all over.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where’s
9749?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
. . . sorry . . ..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben!
Look at me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
blinked tears from his three eyes and peered up, his mouth hanging open, as if
ready to scream for mercy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Worthless
scumspore.</u> “If you touch me again I’ll kill you. You know that, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded, sniffling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.
Where is 9749?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“M-Management
Two. Across the hall. I swear!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>You
will swear if you’re lying again</u>. She leaned down, caught his shoulders,
and pulled Ben to his feet. She put a hand around his throat, pressing her
thumb down just enough to make breathing a real worry. “Get me in.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All—”
He croaked, unable to speak, and then just nodded. Val spun him around and
clamped a hand down on his shoulder, digging her fingers into his skin. Then
she walked him across the room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
tricks,” she whispered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No—no.
I’m sorry—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shut
up.” She waited for him to open the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
lurched across the hall, his legs shaking, to a door marked with the numeral 2.
Checked the entry log, then tapped in the access code. The door slid open. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
shoulder still throbbed, and she had to focus on slow, even breathing to keep
the pain and anger under control. She’d underestimated Ben, assumed he was
harmless. But no one was harmless, and the list of people she trusted
completely was filled mostly with the names of dead people. Foxe wasn’t on that
list yet, and she doubted he’d ever make it in this lifetime. Ben was off it
permanently.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Over
here.” Ben tried to pull his shoulder free but Val kept a clawlike grip. He led
her to a tank labeled, yes, 9749. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“On
the floor,” she ordered. “Face down. One twitch and I’ll kill you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
dropped to the deck, flat. “Hands behind your back,” she ordered. He clutched
his hands together, whimpering.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
stepped to the monitor. The being was in level-2 suspension; vital signs were
healthy. The readout provided some basic information that told her she was
looking at Rumav. <u>He’s right here</u>. But how— “Ben, how do I get him out
of here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
can’t—they’ll—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben!”
She swung over and stomped her heel down on his foot. He squealed. “How I do
open this up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
access code—77 Alpha Epsilon 4315.” He moaned. “There’s a menu. Second from the
bottom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
panel sprang up on the screen. “Got it.” <u>Resuscitate Full</u>. “Just press?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
Then—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Authorization
clearance required. “It’s asking for authorization.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uhh
. . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
do I use?” she demanded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t have one. You need specific codes every time—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
hit Cancel on the menu. <u>Now what</u>? “Can I wake him up manually?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
dangerous! You can’t do it—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
the one in danger, Ben! What do I do?” How much time did she have? She tapped
her comm bracelet to get Foxe, but Ben lifted his head, a desperate look in his
eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shut
down the primary system,” he told her. “Then disable the AG field, and then you
can open the tank and detach everything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is
this going to trigger any alarms?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
closed his eyes and gave a nod of despair. “They’re probably already on their
way.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<u>Kitt</u>.”
She resisted the urge to kick Ben across the face. At least he’d warned her.
“Up. Now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
hauled him off the deck and dragged him toward the door. “Open it!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
passageway was still empty. How long? Seconds, maybe. And now she realized that
it ended in a bulkhead twenty meters away. Only one way in or out. Good
planning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
shoved him back toward the door to room Three. “Inside.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’ll
know—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
hit him across the face. He screamed, then collapsed to the deck like a leaf.
Val stepped over his body and began entering his access code. She could get
inside, hide, warn Foxe—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
move.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An
android’s voice, cold and commanding. Val froze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
andy held an arm outstretched toward her. She knew it had a pulser mounted
inside its arm, ready to burn through the synthetic skin on his palm. It had
golden eyes and a body like a big Harlikkan death-wrestler. A humanoid male
stood behind it, glaring at her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
tried to rape me!” Val shrieked. “He tried to stuff me in one of those tanks
and—and . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben.”
The man stepped around the andy, shaking his head. “Idiot.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Controls
were activated on 9749,” the andy said. “That behavior does not match her
statement.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
got away!” Val triggered tears from her eyes and let her shoulders shake. “Then
he opened that door and I fell against a machine—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’d
better come,” the man said. “Right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
he—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
will both accompany us,” the andy said. “Any attempt to resist or escape will result
in countermeasures that may lead to injury or death.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
can’t—can I call my husband?’ She reached for her comm bracelet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
communication,” the andy said. “Place your grasping appendages above the
highest point of your body. Co-operate when the guard places appropriate
restraints on you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
is— ” She stopped as the human moved toward her, keeping clear of the andy’s
aim. With a sigh she lifted her hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Gotten
out of worse hellholes</u>, she thought as the guard pulled a roll of restraint
tape from his belt. <u>Lots worse</u>. “All right. But there’s going to be
trouble.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who knows
about these passageways?” Foxe asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Everyone,”
Frique said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
was hunched over, the ceiling rubbing the top of his head. Glowspheres every
ten meters cast dim light, and his feet kept kicking empty bottles and the
occasional mutant rat. “So how safe are we in here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
can only reach about half the station here.” Frique’s whisper echoed like the
call of a distant bird. “None of the secure areas. They just haven’t bothered
installing surveillance yet. Or they don’t want to take it away from us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How’d
you end up here?” He still didn’t trust the tech. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
sighed. “My ship was making a delivery, and the boss was bored with me. Traded
me for some slimehog with a bigger rod. First couple of months I didn’t mind.
It was different, and I didn’t have to forn anyone I didn’t want to. But you
ever spent four years inside a cube? Out in the void?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
had endured a prison camp for six months of freezing air, raw mutant-meat, and
daily beatings. This place didn’t seem so bad. But his universe had been
limited to a dark blockhouse and thirty other dirty prisoners with nothing to
live for. Maybe not so different. “I can see your point.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve
got to get out of here. Ay, I’m on the red list right now, one more mistake
and—okay, here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stopped, pressed his ear to a seam in the gray wall. “Empty. I think.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
out there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Food
storage. Automated. Shouldn’t be anyone in there right now.” He checked his
wrist. “Not for another hour.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then
where?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
Management compartments are just down the hall.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
I bet they’re monitored.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
but I go in all the time. Unless we do something stupid—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
far to the tether ports? That’s where my ship is.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
frowned. “Tethers are on the other side of the station. This is closer to the
main docking ports. They want material tanked as fast as possible once it’s
delivered.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait.”
Foxe lifted a hand, thinking as fast as he could. Getting past the security
station with Rumav—and Frique, if he actually brought the tech along with
him—would be the toughest part. “Any way to disable that andy at docking?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
took a deep breath. “No,” he admitted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
honesty actually relieved Foxe. If Frique had promised he could get through the
security station without a problem, the odds were he was either stupid or
lying. Foxe knew some tricks for dealing with security androids. If they got
that far, Frique wouldn’t have time for a change of mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.
Let’s go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
popped the panel out, and Foxe slid through into a long narrow room lined with
storage freezers. He smelled stale protein and hot spices, but he saw only the
flickering light of the storage locker monitors. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
dropped next to him with a soft grunt and replaced the panel. Foxe tied the
length of cable he’d torn from the handcomp around his arm and stepped to the
door. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
corridor outside was quiet. Frique pointed to the left. Foxe nodded. A Bekkan
prayer flowed through his mind: <u>The true prey lives inside you</u>.
Sometimes these bits of wisdom came into his brain at the worst moments, as if
trying to tell him something he couldn’t reach consciously. What the hellcore
was this one saying?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
turned at a branch in the hallway. Foxe could feel Frique’s breath on his
shoulder. “Here. Materials Management Two.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
corridor was a dead end, with three secured doors facing each other. Foxe led
him to the one marked Two and waited while Frique tapped the key.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
door slid open. Frique closed it again as he followed Foxe through. “It’s
crèche—wait. Something’s wrong.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
was staring at a crèche, but Foxe felt the problem in the air. What—? He
inhaled, and realized the problem at once.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
can’t live with someone two days and not pick up part of their essence. An
eyelash floating in the air, maybe, or a faint scent he wasn’t aware he knew.
Years of living on the edge of death had taught him not to ignore what his
senses told him. And right now they were quietly insisting that Val had been
here not long ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
eyes darted around the room. “Is he still there? In the tank?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
but . . ..” He peered at the monitor. “Someone didn’t close the menu right.
They’ve been in here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Damn
it to hellcore.” She’d been taken. It wasn’t the only explanation, but it was
logical, and it was the one he needed to accept if he didn’t want to take any
unecessary risks. “All right. Can you wake him up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
takes a couple of hours for—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
you get him out of there fast? Without bringing security right here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
frowned, thinking through the question. “Yeah. Sort of. I can shift the monitor
to the backup and put crèche support on standby. They won’t notice that for
maybe half an hour. But he won’t be in any shape to walk.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’ll
get him there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
if anyone sees us—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
job. Yours is to get him out of that coffin right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
looked at the deck, moving his lips without sound. Foxe didn’t have time for an
attack of nerves. With one step he was at Frique, one hand around the tech’s
skinny neck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
you can’t help me, I don’t have any use for you.” Foxe squeezed the bones
beneath Frique’s skin, forcing a shudder of pain. “Do it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
right! All—” He staggered away as Foxe released him, and rubbed his shoulder.
“I’m doing it. Don’t hurt me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
get to work.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Watching
Frique navigate the crèche menu, he tapped a number into his comsol. <u>Val,
honey? I want to take a nap. Where are you?</u> But she didn’t respond. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
unclipped his handcomp and set a virtual link to the comsol, They’d let him
download the facility’s basic layout so he wouldn’t have an excuse for
wandering around or getting lost. In a moment he had a location, but the
section was unmarked on the schematic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
shoved the player in Frique’s face. “Where is this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
looked up from the monitor, irritated. “I can’t . . ..” He blinked at the
screen, then took a deep breath. “Security Holding. What is that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing.”
He shut down the gameplayer and clipped it back to his belt. “Get him out of
there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
that was it. Val was out of the game now. He tried to ignore the jolt to his
stomach while he thought through his options. How long could she endure an
interrogation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How long would it
take them to guess what was going on? To start looking for him? How long would
she live after they were—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Breathe</u>,
he told himself. Val knew the risks. She wasn’t the type to complain about bad
luck. She’d keep her mouth shut as long as she could, no matter what they did
to her. He couldn’t afford to waste time worrying about her—no matter how
strong the feeling grew inside his gut.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tough
luck, Val,” he whispered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing.”
Val was on her own. Nothing he could do. “Just keep working.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="ALL" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
TWENTY-ONE: Threat</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What were
you doing in Materials Management?” Morine’s voice was quiet, but her
artificial eyes drilled into Val’s face with a dark blue intensity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
glared up into her face. The holdchair’s restraints were still open, as if to
show that Morine, or the Venzoid security chief in the room, didn’t consider
her a serious threat. <u>Your mistake</u>. The air in the small compartment had
a sharp antiseptic smell. She imagined the staff scrubbing blood from its walls
and deck on a regular basis. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Told
him twice already.” Val nodded at the Venzoid, Azid had no head—a Venzoid’s
brain was deep in the chest—just a tangle of eyestalks sprouting between the
bony shoulders of his three arms. Weapons dangled from his belt—a neuron
pistol, a nerveblade, other instruments of pain. “Maybe three times, or can’t
he count?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There’s no reason for you to be in
Management,” Azid said through the mouth in his belly. “That’s not the
Development section.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In
two days I’m supposed to know every cubic on the ship? Station, whatever? Ben
said he was taking me to the zygotes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben
told me you asked to see the material.” Morine’s fingers tapped her hip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“One specific piece of material.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben
wanted to show me ‘one specific piece of material’ between his legs! This shirt
cost me 150 credits and he ripped it trying to get his filthy hands on me.” She
breathed faster, letting her face turn dark. “Why don’t you ask him about—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben’s
interrogation was finished a few minutes ago. What I want—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“W-what
happened?” She made her voice tremble. “Is h-he—he tried to rape me, b-but—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“He’s dead.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<u>Good</u>. “But he—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“D-Verasite has some side effects. Shock. Brain damage. That’s why we’re
not injecting it into you, not just yet.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
stood close—Morine about a meter away from the chair, with Azid just behind
her. Val could take Morine down, probably get to Azid, but once they saw what
kind of violence she was capable of they’d know she was more than a woman
married to an idiot, seeking a freak child. They’d clamp her down and start
drilling into her brain for answers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
long as she seemed helpless and terrified, she had a chance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
thought he just . . .” She looked down at the deck, away from their eyes. “I
flirted with him. Maybe he thought—but he still attacked me! I had to fight
him—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
you did a good job,” Azid said. “His bruises and wounds tell us that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Didn’t
meant to hurt him—not too bad. I was scared!” She let a tear fall down her
cheek.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
should be.” Morine frowned and tapped one of the implants in her arm, then
closed her eyes, listening to a message internally. She responded too quietly
for Val to hear, and her face turned dark. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
need to go,” she told Azid. “Get everything you can out of her.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait—you
said—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Too
late,” Azid told her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
watched Morine leave the compartment. Azid stood in front of her, every eyestalk
pointed in her direction. “This won’t hurt. I don’t like hurting anyone.” His
arm stretched from its socket, extending toward her like an eel emerging from a
reef. She could grab it, but he was too far away for her to snatch a weapon
from his belt. Just a little closer . . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three
long fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist like flexcuffs. A pinprick
from the center of Azid’s palm stung her skin, and she clenched her jaw,
preparing for the pain—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
gasped at the sensation flooding through her body. Not pain. She’d expected—not
this feeling, not pleasure so intense it made her blind, so deep inside she
thought she’d burst, so electric her skin felt on fire. <u>Ohh . . ..</u> She
gasped, squirming in the chair, and tried to remember where she was, who she
was, why she was here. After a moment she gave up and surrendered, letting the
pleasure flood through her body, hoping it would end soon, hoping it would
never—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
then it was gone. She felt as if she’d hit the bottom of a dark shaft with a
hard empty thud. “Kitt,” she murmured.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you want it?” The voice came from light years away. “More?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yesss
. . .” she hissed. Her body was speaking, ordering her to throw herself into
the source of that pleasure again, agree to anything that would get her there.
Desperate desire clawed at her chest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then
tell me what I want to know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anything.
She opened her mouth to answer him, and remembered the crèche. Ben. Rumav.
Foxe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Kitt</u>.
“Eat slime,” she whispered, hating herself for denying the pleasure. Hating
Azid for withholding it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
sound from the orifice in his belly was like a burp. “You want it. Don’t you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please
. . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One
more short taste. You’ll want it even more when I stop. Then you’ll need to
talk. You’ll want to tell me. Whatever, for just one more taste.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>No
. .</u> . She bit her lip as hard as she could, hoping it would give her
something to fight back the pleasure. But then the sting pricked her arm again
and she leaned back, breathing hard, tears running down her face. <u>Yeaaahhh .
. .</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I have direct
contact with the facility,” Declannes said. “It’s called Leda. The director is
a humanoid female—Morine Andala.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good.”
Shrinn took a position in front of the CommBoard. “Get her on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir.” Declannes was eager for action.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
screen blinked, and Morine appeared. Black hair in a braid, implants in her
arms, and anger in her cold synthetic eyes. “What is this?” she demanded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
was aware of his team’s attention. Aje was here in the control room, his arms
and face tense. Every station was staffed for combat, and the rest of the team
was in full armor, their weapons charged, listening to the exchange. Waiting
for the word. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
spoke with a slow, even tone. “My name is Shrinn. We’ve placed over thirty SP-2
antimatter micro-mines on your hull and within the structure of your station. I
will detonate one of them to prove I’m willing to destroy Leda unless you give
me what I want.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
smirked. “And what do you—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
it,” Shrinn told Mateon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir.” Mateon hit two keys on her board. “Five seconds.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stared at Morine as the seconds counted down. He knew her type: a petty tyrant,
jealous of her small power, hiding her fear by menacing the beings around her.
She survived on threats and intimidation, not any real respect. A coward at the
core. She’d rush to give into him when she realized who and what she was
facing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shrinn
shifted his eyes to the survey screen as the final second came. Then the mine
detonated: No flash of light, no rippling explosion, but a core of darkness,
silent and deadly as a cancer. In a moment pieces of the hull broke away. They
whirled in the vacuum, and the team saw a brief, faint glow around the gash as
the air in that section hissed into the darkness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mateon
took a deep breath and nodded in satisfaction. “Damage to Leda’s hull,” she
reported. “Radius 17.5 meters. Loss of structural integrity minimal. Area is
now sealed. Three bodies. Station weapons are active and seeking target.” She
smirked. They were out of range for Leda’s Thunder missiles to reach them accurately,
even if they could locate the ship under stealth mode. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Morine
was shouting to someone off screen. Her face was taut, worried, struggling to
maintain her self-control and her authority over her crew, which would right
now be panicking, thinking of their own survival instead of following her
orders. “Just do it!” she snapped, and turned back to Shrinn. “What do you
want?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
was a demonstration. I can destroy your entire station just as easily.” He
paused, letting her worry. Just as she was about to throw a curse at his face,
he said: “I want two things: First, the specimen delivered by <u>Quili’s Fire</u>.”
The Tadori ship was still clamped to Leda’s hull.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“QF
brought . . . more than one specimen . . .” He saw her fingers move on a
keyboard, looking for data on the cargo he wanted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
one had seven fingers. Dark skin. Long braided hair. I don’t care about his
condition. Dead, damaged, or unconscious, I want him in an escape pod within thirty
minutes. No other ships are to leave your station within that time, or I’ll
destroy you. Twenty minutes.” He glanced at Declannes. “Start counting.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Declannes
hit a countdown display. 30:00 . . . 30:59 . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
blinked. Shrinn could sense her confusion. A specimen? Morine opened her mouth,
then seemed to think better of whatever she wanted to say. She shrugged. “What
else?” Suspicious but hopeful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ve
got one human named Foxe on Leda. I want him. Put him in the same pod. Thirty
minutes. Twenty-nine now.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
said nothing. For a moment he thought she might argue, just to show him she
didn’t take orders from anyone. She didn’t have any loyalty to her clients, but
she’d need to maintain her own authority, to show her crew that no one could
push her around. Then she relaxed. He saw the relief in her shoulders, her
eyebrows. <u>Not worth it</u>, she was thinking. Good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
have Foxe.” The name sounded like a curse. “Do you want the other one? The female
traveling with him?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Valeria
Lynd. Shrinn had considered the option over the past few hours. Did she care
about Foxe as much as he’d cared for Lanesh, or was she just a business
partner? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”
She hadn’t killed Lanesh. “Just Foxe. Thirty minutes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Declannes
cut the screen. Morine vanished.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’d
discussed tactics with his team. They could have simply triggered the mines and
destroyed Leda without warning, sending their bodies spinning into space. They
could board the plaguedamned station—they were prepared for that option with
their weapons and battle armor—and kill everyone they saw: crew, customers,
victims. They weren’t afraid of the risks. But the biggest risk was that
somehow Rumav—and Foxe—would slip away from them again. Shrinn needed
confirmation. Bodies, dead or alive. He wanted to see them with his own eyes
before he could report success with confidence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
perverts running Leda weren’t soldiers. They pretended to be in business,
weighing profit and loss. They wouldn’t fight back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
if they did he’d destroy them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s
activity in the docking sector,” Declannes said. “Emergency preparations for
departure by several ships.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sir?”
It came Aje, stationed at the SystemsBoard. “Foxe could escape with the target
on any ship there. Shouldn’t we—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
have him. You heard—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She
could be lying.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Had
he miscalculated? Morine could try to stop them from detaching, but frightened
beings would risk ripping free from their docks and tethers no matter what she
demanded. “Tag all the ships,” he ordered Declannes. “Right now. Mateon, help
him.” It could be done in a matter of minutes. He was still confident that Foxe
would be in the pod, but Aje as right—they couldn’t afford to take any chances.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
couldn’t escape this time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-68342570364835667282014-01-25T10:58:00.001-08:002014-01-25T10:58:40.175-08:00Prodigal Prince, Ch. 18-19Because it's been so long since I posted any new chapters, I thought I'd give you a double dose.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
EIGHTEEN: Games</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Time to
work</u>, Val thought. She wore a loose white shirt, unzipped far enough to
draw attentive eyes. Tight black slacks wrapped around her slim hips,
emphasizing every step as she walked across the cabin to the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
are you going?” Foxe asked from the bed. “That’s pretty slink for breakfast.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
shrugged. She saw his eyes follow the rise and fall of her shoulders.
“Just—around.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
forget we’re viewing the profiles in three hours.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hands
on her hips, she stared at him. They had the bickering down all too well. “And
don’t forget we can’t change our minds about the eyes again. Blue moon is what
we agreed on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
just said maybe we should think about—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
think about leaving here as soon as possible. With a product. Unless you want
to stay here and gamble all our money away with that Frique.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
due for a winning streak. With what this is costing us—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
shut up! Please.” Her voice shook. “It’s what we settled on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”
He looked away from her. “Just be . . . watch yourself. Lot of crazies in this
place.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
was actually worried. He didn’t think she was up to the job. She shook her
head, irritated. <u>I can handle this</u>, she wanted to snap. <u>Not even the
toughest location I’ve gotten out of</u>. “All right.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
left. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
walked quickly, her heart beating harder than she expected. Foxe could play
games with Frique all through the Alpha Shift, and maybe he was good enough at enough
gambling to turn Frique, force him to co-operate, but she had something better.
A little flirting and a certain amount of flesh, and Ben would give her
anything she asked for before half-shift break.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of
course, that’s when things could get tricky. She’d handled beings like Ben before,
males and females and gender-swingers of different species who expected to get
their taste of her whether she laughed or screamed. They usually underestimated
her ability to slide away from their slimy hands before they realized they
weren’t going to get sexed. A handful of times she’d had to actually perform,
but even then she’d been able to play the game until they were so caught up in
passion or cruelty they let their guard down and gave her a chance to kick
their genitals whichever way hurt most. She didn’t like to remember those
episodes, but they were necessary. The memory kept her alert.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
Ben wouldn’t be a problem. A horny kid, too long stuck in the middle of this
nebula, a hundred light years from anything female that would look at him twice
without checking his credit first. He was aching for attention. And other
things. She’d need to be cautious—frustrated lust was one of the deadliest
forces in the universe, she’d found—but she probably wouldn’t have to kill him.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
knew what Morine and her crew would do to Ben if she got what she wanted from
him. But she didn’t let herself think about that. Couldn’t afford to. Ben was
on his own, just like she was. Just like everyone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe she could get him out. Maybe she
could rescue all of them, lead a revolt against the clonesavers, take over the
station, and bring Rumav back home unharmed. Uh-huh. Right. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>You
can’t save everyone, Vallie. The universe has to take care of itself. Sorry,
Ben.<o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
made her way down to the maintenance decks, using a code Ben had given her to
open doors. She found him sitting in the corridor, legs crossed, his fingers
punching the controls of a vidgame. He didn’t notice her, and she watched him
as his round eyes darted like angelfish tracking the game. His concentration was
pure and total. His breathing was shallow, and he didn’t laugh once for the
ninety seconds she watched him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi,
Ben,” she said when she decided he wasn’t going to take a break on his own.
“What you playing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?
Oh, hi—hi, Val.” He blinked, torn between staying with his game and looking at
her. “It’s just a new version of River Rats. Hamnet gave it to me. Do you
ever—ever play River Rats?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“V-games
aren’t that much fun.” She crouched to peer at the screen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
this is good, though. You got to navigate down a river, and each game is a
river on a different planet. See, this is the Brandyroot on Corius Seven, it
goes across the whole planet.” He jabbed a thumb on one control. The small
craft flitted away from a rising tentacle, but Ben’s maneuver took it into the
path of a jagged boulder falling from a tall cliff over the shore. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
craft dropped beneath churning waves. GAME OVER.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry.
I distracted you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
all right.” He turned the player off and stuffed it down a pocket as if ashamed
of his defeat. “What you doing down here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bored.”
She sat next to him, stretching her legs. “Slept bad.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bad
nightmares?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
. . . lonely. I’m stuck in that compartment with just my husband, nothing to
do, just waiting . . ..” She closed her eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Was
he running his eyes over her body? Probably. She’d caught shy glances from him
before when he thought she wouldn’t notice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe’s
face reared into her mind for a moment. He’d gotten a look at her body a few
times, and while he didn’t try to hide his interest, she sensed that he had
other priorities—not just here and now, but in his life outside the station.
She hadn’t let herself wonder what they were.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
had more immediate goals right now, too. Getting attention with her body was
easy. Using that attention to get what she wanted—without losing control of the
situation—that’s what took skill. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
going soon, right?” He blurted the question, as if she scared him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
I can’t live here. If we can decide on the right specs it could be soon. Today,
maybe. But Erick can be a pricking pig sometimes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
What’s a pig?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
smiled, her eyes still closed. “An animal. A dirty animal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pause.
“Why do you like him?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
question.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about Foxe—he was difficult to scan.
Probably good at his job, but too defensive. Hiding behind jokes and attitude.
“He can be—fun, sometimes. Just not here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
Not much fun here.” He was getting restless.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
had to keep his interest. Val opened her eyes and sat forward. “You know what?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
blinked, shifting his eyes away from her body now that she could see him again.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
could do me a favor, maybe.” Val looked into his three eyes. They were perfect
circles, yellow and unsettled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah—maybe.”
He looked away from her. “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’re
supposed to view the embryo profiles in a few hours. If I could get a look at
them—well, I’d know what Erick’s going to argue about, and I could make him
shut up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
want me to show you the profiles? That’s—I don’t know.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
glanced up and down the corridor, then leaned closer to him. “Maybe not the
final profiles. Just the raw data. The genetics. You could do that, couldn’t
you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well
. . .” He wanted to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
put a hand on his leg. “Nobody has to know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
grinned suddenly. He had a single ridge of bone inside his mouth, the color of
pearl. “There’s a work carrel. It’s private. It’s kind of tight. We could . .
.” His eyes grew shadowed, embarrassed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
we could. Can we do it right now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right
now.” He forced himself to look away from her again and focused on the time
implant in his wrist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ve got an
hour.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
long enough.” She gave him a smile. “Let’s do it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”
He scrambled to his feet and stamped them on the deck, as if they’d fallen
asleep. “This way. Come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Got
you</u>, Val thought. “Lead the way.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bacat was
based on an old Terra-1 game called Holdem, with one element added by the
Narixian Temple of Ramos the Champion: Bets were made by throwing a
twenty-sided dice. The only decision was whether to toss the dice or not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dice
made Foxe’s plan more complicated. Foxe could have rigged the gameplayer on his
handcomp to let him win—or lose—whenever he needed to, even though Frique had
naturally insisted on scanning the software. But he couldn’t control the dice
and how much it let him bet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
But Foxe had played this game during the Varrian Occupation with chainsaw
bombs exploding over his skull. The dice variation barely distracted him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
He’d created a “tell” for Frique to notice, rubbing his nose before tossing
the dice whenever he was bluffing. Foxe was careful to keep it subtle and rare,
avoiding Frique’s eyes and using the tell only when his hand was weak enough
that desperation was his only hope of winning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Frique came from the Danquin homeworld: a short humanoid with no hair on
his body, no ears, and a web of bulging blue veins that crisscrossed his bare
scalp. His job was keeping the genetic manipulation equipment running smoothly.
He had access to all the crèche data. He could find Rumav—with the right
incentive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
And he was a decent bacat player, but he didn’t want to play today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I just got off Gamma Shift.” He leaned
against a bulkhead. “Go away. I’m tired.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m leaving today. Probably.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Then he straightened. Only slightly more than a meter tall, he was solid
and thick as an oxblix. “Then you’d better give me my 300 cees.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s 287.” Foxe flicked his fingers across the screen of his handcomp.
“How about double stakes?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Frique sighed. “You’re defective. All right, come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
empty shelves inside the storage compartment where they played reminded Foxe of
prison bars. He set up the game on a small worktable in the corner. Frique perched
on a stool, watching to make sure he didn’t load any suspicious apps at the
same time. Frique had checked the gameplayer’s software before their first game
to be certain the hands were really generated randomly. He supplied the dice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
gameplayer on Foxe’s handcomp would project two holoscreens visible from only
one angle, displaying randomly generated images of playing cards. A third
screen between them showed their common cards. The gameplayer kept track of
their scores.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Getting
your embryo today?” Frique asked as Foxe dealt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
look at the profiles in a few hours. I just hope she’s happy with one of them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
smirked. “You want to get out of here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Soon
as possible. Hey, you’re a tech. You seen my profiles?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can’t
tell you that. You know the rules.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
only rule I care about is a flush beats a straight. Or is it the other way
around?” He grinned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Scumsucker.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really—Can
you check the profiles out for me? I just want—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No!
Can you hear with those ugly flaps of skin you wear on your head? I can’t do
that. Don’t worry, you’ll be on your way soon enough. Let’s play.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
tossed the dice and entered their bets on Foxe’s handcomp. For the first few
games they’d used credit tabs, until Foxe had lost big and claimed he couldn’t
give him all his tabs without his wife finding out. He had to get Frique to
lose more than he could easily pay, but he also had to make him think he had
his own limits. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two
quick hands, and they were almost even again. Frique smiled, his face sweaty.
“Your wife going to cover you if I empty your credit deck?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
we not talk about her? This whole trip was her idea.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
could work out a trade. She’d have to co-operate, you know?” The veins in his
forehead pulsed as he chuckled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Keep
yanking it. I’m the best she can handle. And she wouldn’t touch your—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
me. I don’t tilt her way.” He tossed the dice. “But some of my friends . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
looked up, his eyes sharp. “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing,
just—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
pushed himself up to his feet. “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
tilted his stool back. “Ay, back down over there. You wanted to play cards?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
sank into his chair and glared at his card display. He wanted to keep Frique
wary of his temper, but his irritation wasn’t totally an act. Even though Val
seemed perfectly capable of protecting herself. “Keep your mouth shut about my
wife. Just shut. You going to bet?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
rolled the dice. Eleven. Frique peered into his screen and matched his 22 cees.
“Ready for the cap?” He flipped the last card.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hellcore.”
Foxe was down fifty cees. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
few more hands passed in silence. Then Frique, after a few stolen glances,
said, “There’s this one, named Ben. Creche-tender, used to be material. He just
talks about your wife a little.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
said—” Foxe stared at him. “Like what?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thinks
she likes him. Your bet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
tossed the dice. Twenty. He rubbed his nose and entered a bet of 40 i.c. “Well,
she’s not about to share fluids with refuse from a crèche. I know the bitch
that well.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
thinks . . . ” Frique turned the river, giving him three Lesser Monarchs to
Foxe’s two black tens.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shove
him. And you, if you keep talking.” He’d lost 130 cees in the hand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frique’s chatter about Val irritated
him. He wasn’t sure why. Val irritated him even more. Okay, not fair—it wasn’t
her fault she’d been born with money, and her body was a legitimate tool if she
wanted to use it. Frique’s words didn’t bother him as much as the truth—that
she was somewhere below them working Ben, letting him think . . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
going to deal?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
tapped a key. “Let’s make this worthwhile.” He anted double the usual amount.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
smiled and met him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
lost the next hand, without using his tell. He managed to lose 500 cees after
that without even trying, thanks to a potential flush that didn’t materialize.
Frique won with a pair of twos and cackled as he checked his score. “Ready to
pay up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
glared at him. “Just deal the cards.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
two pocket cards were useless, but he tossed the dice anyway. The three-up
cards gave him nothing. He let Frique see him hesitate. Betting too
aggressively on trash would arouse some suspicion, but he needed to keep the
stakes rising. With a loud sigh, he tossed the dice. Ten. His bet was 20.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
tossed the dice, then closed his screen, conceding the hand. Foxe cursed
inwardly as he gave the tech a big grin. “Things starting to turn, my friend.”
He was still down by 220 cees.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
gotta go.” Frique shoved the cards across the table. “Alpha’s what—shista, half
over? Need some rest.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Arguing
would just make him stubborn. With a shrug, Foxe said. “Fine by me. I can’t get
this money together anyway right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
froze. “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can get it, all right?” He edged his chair backward, as if afraid. “Just not
right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
better, clonesucker.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One
more hand?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
I can win more money you can’t pay?” His face grew red, a sharp contrast to the
blue veins in his forehead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can get it! One more, come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
better. Or I get to take your testicles, if that’s what your species carries.”
But Frique sat down. “This is it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
prince in the three-up gave Foxe a pair. He tossed the dice. Nineteen, which he
doubled. Frique threw a twenty and bet 40. The next card that opened, a greater
monarch, didn’t help Foxe at all. He threw fifteen, and doubled it again.
Frique threw a twelve and bet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
the cap. The final card popped open.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three.
Foxe’s other pocket card was a three, giving him two pair. He tossed the dice.
Sixteen. But on the cap he was allowed to wager up to ten times the dice. He
took a long look at his pocket card, then rubbed his nose, keeping his eyes
away from Frique. He bet 160.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
tossed the dice for seventeen. With a grin, he bet 170. “All right, you’d better
have it by tonight . . .” His voice trailed away as their screens displayed
each player’s hands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
sighed loudly. “Finally.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Frique had one pair of nines. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Shista!” Frique slapped the worktable hard enough to send the dice to
the floor. “That can’t be right!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
you checked the software. You insisted.” Foxe breathed a long sigh. “I was
about due for luck.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I was going to get some rest . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
you can sleep all you want.” Foxe pulled the cards together. “We’d better
settle, though, I’m going to be leaving soon, and you owe me . . . 756 cees.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bann’s
ass!” He grabbed the handcomp. “That’s out of—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Check
the log,” Foxe snapped. “You weren’t asking questions when I was down. Come on,
let’s finish it and you can get some sleep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can’t—” Frique stopped, glaring at Foxe. “<u>You</u> needed time to get the
money.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
said you were going to cut off my testicles.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
going to leave!” He stood up, knocking his stool over, and kicked the wall
behind him. “Just as soon as you get your embryo. You and your luck. All right,
Koro owes me some money. Let me talk to him. Gamma shift.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Koro
owes you money.” Foxe closed the game, clipped the player to his belt, and bent
down for the dice. <u>Time to raise the stakes</u>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
he’s an andy programmer—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
hurled the dice at Frique’s face. It struck him just below one eye, then
dropped and bounced beneath the shelving as dark maroon blood began dripping
down his cheek. He shouted in pain and surprise, but before he could move Foxe
jumped around the table and slammed a fist into his chest. The bone beneath was
soft. Frique screamed. Foxe hoped he hadn’t damaged any important organs
underneath.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
tried to lift his arm to defend himself, but Foxe brought his boot down hard on
his foot. Bones crunched, and Frique doubled over, gasping. Foxe grabbed
Frique’s neck in a tight painful pinch and pulled him upright. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Goddeshi,
you don’t have to—ahh!” He squirmed. The veins in his forehead were dark
purple.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
for saying things about my wife.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
didn’t—Ow! Okay, apology, okay! Stop . . ..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
released him, and Frique sagged, laying his smooth head on the desk. Foxe’s
heart thudded. Frique was a cloneslaver. He deserved worse than this. But Foxe
needed him. For now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
get—the money—just don’t—hit me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
keep your filthy credits. I don’t need your money.” Foxe nudged his leg with
one foot. Frique flinched. “I’ll tell you what I want instead.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wh-what?”
Frique peered up at him, the bruise from the dice pushing his eye half shut.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
leaned over. “I want seven fingers.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t . . .” He blinked, trying to focus on Foxe’s hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For
my embryo! I want seven fingers. It’s just—something I want.” He gave Frique’s
chest a tap. Not hard, but Frique flinched and swore at him. “There’s got to be
something in one of the crèches with seven fingers, isn’t there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know. I don’t know!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
let’s find out. Right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can’t—”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course you can. Weren’t you bragging yesterday about checking out the material
for good bodies?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
I—wait! Don’t!” he shouted as Foxe drew his fist back again. “Shista. You’re
crazy, you know that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just
what Foxe wanted him to think. He grabbed Frique’s neck again, squeezing the
nerve center near his spine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Stop!
I can do it. Back off, would you?” He curled up into a ball. “I can do it.
Goddeshi . . ..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
released him and took a step back. Frique’s arms dangled at his side, his face
on the table, breathing hard. “All right.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
didn’t enjoy beating people who couldn’t fight back, even when they deserved
it. But at least they didn’t haunt his dreams. He wiped the sweat from his face
with the back of his arm. “Then let’s go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right
now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
either pay me right now or do it right now. Or get more of the treatment right
now. You pick. Right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
all right.” Frique took a deep breath and pulled himself up, holding onto a
shelf. “I’m bleeding.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
a scowl, Foxe pulled a dermalspray from his vest and tossed it. “Here. Anyone
asks, you had an accident shaving.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
sprayed his hairless scalp. “Shaving?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Never
mind.” He pointed to the door. “Let’s go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="ALL" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
NINETEEN: Target</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<u>Quili’s
Fire</u> is here.” Declannes highlighted an icon on the tactical screen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shrinn’s
eyes moved between the tactical display and the main viewscreen. Tactical
showed positions and distances relative to their ship. His ship could identify tactical
configurations, list known weaponry, analyze energy signatures, prioritize
potential targets, and suggest manuevers for attack and evasion. The main
screen showed reality: The cloneslaver facility floating in space, 1.5 million
kilometers away, shrouded by the glowing dust of the Sorresana Nebula. A thick
block of metal, scarred and dirty, rotating in a lazy, random pattern like a
piece of stellar driftwood. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
ship was in stealth mode. Under normal circumstances it would be impossible to
spot, but any decent survey array would pick up disturbances in the stellar
dust of the nebula around them. In the viewscreen, ships connected to the
station with flimsy-looking tethers looked like insects caught in a huge web,
not trying to escape but hoping to make a deal with the spider with their souls
as payment. The other ships docked to the station’s hull were like sandleeches,
sucking the life from their prey, depositing their waste onto the station so it
could feed and continue to survive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Perversions
were being committed there that they couldn’t see through any screen.
Disgusting experiments that no one should witness, let alone suffer through.
They’d all seen the AW archive vids on cloneslaver horrors. Every civilized
culture was sickened by the practice. And yet it persisted. Thrived. Fed on the
beings it captured and spewed the refuse it produced into the galaxy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
Shrinn’s anger had nothing to do with the horror in front of him. He had a different
target. “Is Foxe still there?”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Unscrambling
their tag through the strangled mess created by the hotpaint had taken
days—although it could have taken weeks if he hadn’t insisted on the best tech
for his team. But long as Foxe was still here, Rumav was within reach. And
neither one of them would escape.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Let me . . .” Declannes hesitated, manipulating the CommBoard controls.
“Yes. Here he is in their current client database. Valeria Lynd is with him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Lynd. The bounty hunter from M’tajj’s suite. Also hunting Rumav. Had they
teamed up out of necessity? Maybe they’d been working together from the start,
pretending to be adversaries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It didn’t matter. If she got in the way, she’d die too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Set
a tag on her ship. And in the name of the Seven, test it this time.” Declannes
had all the right skills, but he’d missed that step at Crystal Rendezvous. Lanesh
wouldn’t have.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir.” Declannes bit his lip as he tapped the controls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Mateon?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His Weapons Chief nodded.
“Sir.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Start planting SP-2s on the station’s hull. I want enough to obliterate
the station with one single command within the hour.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
structural survey will take several hours—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Skip
the survey. Just plant as many as you can in one hour without being detected.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sir?”
Aje spoke from the doorway. He didn’t have a station on the bridge, but he had
the right to observe operations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“My squad can board and take the station.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Was it a challenge? They’d exchanged only a few words since Crystal
Rendezvous—curt orders and terse acceptance. But Aje seemed determined not to
give into any sense of guilt he felt for Lanesh’s death. And Shrinn had
realized, reluctantly, how great his shame must be. Aje was a good soldier. He
deserved respect. Despite his mistakes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”
Tempting as it was, that meant fighting from deck to deck, one cubicle after
another, and a station like Leda would have too many potential deathtraps
waiting for any invading force. Better to stand off in the darkness. Play to
their strengths—power and patience.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aje
nodded. “Then we should place SP-2s on the docked ships as well as the
station.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
made sense. But he couldn’t give the station too much time to react. “How many
ships?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fourteen.”
Declannes checked the board. “Counting Lynd.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Place one on Lynd’s ship, transition trigger. Leave the others. I want
to be able to make contact with that station within the hour.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“On
it, sir.” Mateon was clicking keys as fast as he could.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aje
nodded. “Your command, sir.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Century Heir was somewhere in the facility. Helpless. Waiting to be harvested.
They could just leave him there. The cloneslavers would never identify him. If
he ever regained enough consciousness to stammer his name they’d assume he was
lying, or insane. Or they could simply destroy the station and leave its
wreckage to drift in the nebula dust. Erase it from existence, along with
everyone on board: the victims in their crèches would never know, and the crew
and their clientele didn’t deserve any warning or explanation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
he had to see. To give an accurate report to Darel, he needed to know for a
fact that Rumav was dead. No longer any threat to them That meant restraining
his impatience, keeping his team ready, not taking any chances.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
heard the voices of his team murmuring around him, on the bridge and within the
ship’s onboard network, asking questions, sharing jokes, placing bets, cursing
each other. The various control boards of the bridge hummed and beeped like
crickeers in the grass of home. His own breathing seemed to thunder in his
chest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Century Heir was on board that station, but Foxe was he pictured right now,
alive and healthy, oblivious to the damage he’d done and the punishment that
was coming for him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Any
two-day recruit could go in blasting. As much as he wanted to act quickly,
decisively—violently—he needed to take his time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No
more mistakes. Not after Crystal Rendezvous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ben was
nervous. Sweating like an adolescent sneaking into his father’s wine cellar or
his mother’s virtual sex platform, his t-shirt sticking to his skinny
shoulders, he whispered a quick, please-don’t-answer-me hello to one crewmember
in the corridor and waited for him to disappeared before taking Val through a
secured door. Inside he took a deep breath, half relief and half increased
anxiety. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
were deep within the station. Val could feel the power from the multi-fusion
chamber humming through the deck. They stood in a short, wide hall with a
circular lighttube overhead, doors with security locks glowing red on either
side of them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben
avoided looking directly at her. “It’s probably this one,” he murmured,
stepping toward the second door to the right with the words STATION 4 printed
in black. “Or one of the others. But probably this. It should have what you want.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
sure it will.” He needed confidence. Needed to trust that she wouldn’t punish
him for a mistake. “Let’s take a look.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded, but didn’t move for a second. Val waited, scanning the area with her
eyes and ears. Finally Ben sighed and headed to the door. He jammed the chip
into the reader, tapped a code into the keypad, and tensed as the door slid
open. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
one’s usually in here,” he said without looking over his shoulder as he
entered. “You can access the database anywhere, but you've got to log in unless
you’re using one of the terminals here, so this—this seemed like the best way.
We can’t change anything, just look at the data. I’d need an override key to do
anything else”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
used a code on that keypad. Will anyone know we’re in here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
It’s a just generic entry code. They don’t really care if we’re in here. It’s
just that—you’re not supposed to be here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
room was slightly larger than the compartment she was sharing with Foxe. Six
comp stations jutted from the walls, screens on standby. A glowsphere floated
in the center of the room, flooding every corner with white light. Signs were
stuck to various monitors—CLOSE ALL INTERFACES WHEN COMPLETE, NIKOLAS DON’T
CHANGE ANY PASSWORDS AGAIN, ALLPORN MOVED TO CHANNEL N32, XR KEY STICKS SO
PRESS HARD!!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben
picked a seat, and the dark screen in front of him came automatically to life.
He peered at the menu. “Okay. What—what do you want?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Embryo
profiles.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you have the—no, you wouldn’t have a base ID. When did they take your specs?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Two
days ago.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
licked his lips and punched in a date. Lines of data poured down the screen.
“It could be—okay, here it is.” He highlighted one line and tapped a series of
instructions. The screen blinked, and five image icons popped into view. “There
they are.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
leaned down over him, one hand on his shoulder. She could feel his arm shake as
she stared as he clicked on each icon, one by one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just
a cluster of cells. It was hard to visualize any living potential in this clump
of genetic material, but she knew that in a matter of days it would develop
into a real embryo waiting to be born—or flushed. The cloneslave trade was
based on the ability to produce fully-grown specimens as quickly as possible,
even faster than the typical acceleration process used by impatient beings on a
hundred worlds to reduce the waiting time between conception and birth. Many
would-be parents didn’t rely on sex to produce offspring; those that did
frequently had their embryos removed at an early stage to grow in gestation
tubes, monitored and manipulated to guarantee health and whatever advantages
they favored. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Val’s mother had done it, sculpting both daughters and one son for
physical beauty. Adriann had been more beautiful than Val, while Paul seemed
modeled after ancient statues of the gods of Greece on Terra-1 and the saints
of Orion Prime. Val, leaner than her sister and more athletic than Paul, didn’t
know what template her mother had used to guide her physical development, and
she’d given up pondering that long ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Panels
opened next to each icon, listing basic genetic stats. The High Lady Jatril had
provided her with a thorough summary of Rumav’s genetic code for identification
purposes. The strings of data meant little to her, but she’d highlighted some
genetic abnormalities for Val to look for. She searched the data, aware of
Ben’s eyes on her, his closeness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
third profile looked like it contained some of Rumav’s DNA. But when she tried
to drill down for the precise data, the system demanded an authorization code.
“Can you?” she asked Ben, her voice implying rewards for success.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
think so.” He entered a sequence. “This —it’s a code that belongs to a friend
of mine. He might get in trouble.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
worry.” New panels appeared with chromosomal source data. She frowned, wishing
she’d studied genetics better at University before dropping out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
felt Ben shift in his chair. Was she losing him? That would be fine in the long
run, as long as she got what she needed. But she needed his interest now. “This
won’t take long,” she whispered. “Then we can . . ..” She left the possibility
wide open for him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“O-okay.”
He moved close to her again. His arm trembled as it brushed her shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>This
is it</u>. The DNA was definitely a match for Rumav. But something was wrong.
She rubbed her eyes, trying to find the mistake in the streams of data.
Something didn’t match, but she wasn’t a geneticist. Just a bounty hunter. And
she was closing in on her prey. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
smiled. She’d found the target. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
need to see this one.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
blinked. “It’s right there. Do you want—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
material. Where is it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
body stiffened. “It’s in a crèche. I can’t—Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
important. To me.” She turned and faced him, her hands on either side of his
chair. “Can you do that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
could—but . . . I don’t understand.” Doubt was beginning to grow in his eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
had a friend like this one. Once, a long time ago. Before Erick—he doesn’t
know. He had a son—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
is just genetic code! You can’t tell anything from this!” He stabbed a key and
the panel vanished.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
were going to have children. Real children.” Hand on his arm? No—not right
after talking about her “husband.” “We submitted specimens to an agency, but
they disappeared and the agency went out of business. This fits the profile we
were planning.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
not yours. It came in just a few days ago. It’s fully grown, mature—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
not as young as I try to look. Really, I could be Erick’s mother. Maybe even
his grandmother.” Not true, but bodysculpture and youth treatments could
maintain a youthful appearance for decades. “Maybe it’s a mistake, but—I’d
really like to see him. To be sure, before I—before Erick and I . . . ” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
stared into his eyes, not letting him look away. Threats, pain—they might work,
but the best way to get his co-operation was to enlist him. The hope of sex was
powerful bait, but sympathy would win real loyalty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stared back at her, his eyes shivering. “I suppose. But if they catch me . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
take care of you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
thought you—” He shook his head. “Why are we here? Really?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
sighed. “I thought . . . he wanted a child, a—special child. I thought it would
help me keep him. Things haven’t been—good, lately. I’m not sure what I want
anymore. But if this is a real child, a healthy one, it . . . changes things.
Maybe everything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
can’t buy it. They won’t let you take it away. They never do, people have
tried—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll—I’ll
think of something. But I need your help.” Now she put her hand on his arm, a
soft touch. “Please?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
looked away from her, shaking his head. When he looked back his face was calm,
his breathing slow and even. “O-okay. I’ll help.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
kissed his cheek lightly. “Thank you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In a
sanitation chamber Frique washed the dried blood from his face. Then he opened
a panel in the bulkhead above the sink and hauled himself up into the opening. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Foxe followed and found himself in a cramped passageway that ran behind
the walls. He had to turn sideways to follow Frique, hunching down so his head
didn’t scrape the ceiling. Only a few distant glowrods cast enough light to see
through the shadows. Frique climbed a ladder to the deck above, turned, and
headed down the passageway. They were somewhere near the station’s hull, and
all alone. Apparently.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
a few dozen meters Frique stopped and opened a door. “Here.” Foxe stepped
through into a long narrow room stretching almost a hundred meters in either
direction. Cables and pipes ran down the walls and ceiling, and discarded
bottles, food wrappers, and contraceptive devices littered the floor. He heard
the skittering noises of station rats in the shadows. The usual sour odors lay
heavy in the air—sweat, stale beer, vomit and urine, lingering smoke.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
nerves felt red and tight. Frique could easily be leading him into a trap. The
whole station was a trap, and he’d been living inside waiting for it to snap
for too long. An attack would be almost a relief. Action was always better than
the worry that came before. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
let your feet stick to anything,” Frique muttered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
is where you come for privacy?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
a good place for—well, parties.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
very posh.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
sat on the floor, crossing his legs, and picked up a handcomp that was linked
into a cable running along the curved outer wall. “The comp’s off the grid.
We—some of us use it to scope the material.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Better
than porn?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
a small station,” he said, defensive. “We’re stuck here. I’ve been here four
years. We don’t get visitors like your wife often enough.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
said to shut up about her,” Foxe growled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Forget
it. Let me . . ..” He activated the handcomp. Foxe crouched next to him,
avoiding a pebble of dried rat dung.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
had seemed to calm down during their walk through the passageway, but Foxe
could see his muscles bunched beneath his shirt. His breathing was quick and
shallow. Foxe centered his weight and kept his hands loose. Frique might be
hoping he could catch Foxe off guard. It wouldn’t happen, but Foxe didn’t want
to waste any more time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
is your thing for seven fingers?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
lucky number. What do you care? Just find some.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
rocked back and forth as he ran the handcomp. The screen was small, and Foxe
had to lean in close to watch. “Is this going to take long?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’ve
got everything catalogued. This isn’t even the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard
of.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
cloneslavers. Nobody comes here to breed any great intellects.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sometimes
they want beings who can do all kinds of math in their brains. For gambling, I
guess. They want everything. Not just genitalia. Warriors, beings who can breathe
water, or methane. Sometimes they bring—hey, here it is.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
blinked. “That’s it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
one. Material 9749. Take a look.” He moved back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
clamped a hand on his wrist. “Right here where I can see you.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ay,
I’m not trying anything! Just take a look!” He pointed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
screen showed a panel of basic specs—height, mass, race, physical
characteristics. Material 9749 was humanoid race R-72, 380 centimeters tall, 56
kilos, male gender, general health good. And then Foxe saw it: seven fingers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
you get me a visual? His face?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Face?”
Frique looked as if Foxe had asked for 9749’s favorite color. “What difference
does that—wait, wait! Goddeshi, I can get it. No one ever wants to see their
face.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Probably
not. Looking at faces meant recognizing that a piece of “material” was a
sentient being. “Do it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
kind of strange.” But Frique worked the handcomp, and in a moment an image came
up on the screen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rumav.
Eyes open but glassy. Foxe felt his anxiety lift for the first time in days,
only to crash down again a nanosecond later. Yeah, Rumav was here, alive. Now
he just had to get him out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
is he?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
sighed and produced a schematic of the station. “Right here. Material
Management Two. What’s going on, Erick? You just said you needed something with
seven fingers, and now—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
stood up. “Now I’m going to have to tie you up and leave you here. I’m sure
someone will find you.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eyes
wide, Frique tried to scramble away. Foxe caught his arm and hauled him to his
feet. Frique squirmed, pulling at Foxe’s hand. “No, no, you can’t—wait!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
hit him in the face, and Frique sagged to his knees. His arm slipped from
Foxe’s hand but as he lurched forward, gasping through the pain, he clutched
Foxe’s fingers like a spacer holding desperately to a shipline.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait,”
he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t leave me here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Someone
will find you,” he repeated. “You just said—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can help you get to him. I’ll help you get him out of here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe’s
blood felt icy. “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
it, right? Some kind of a rescue?” He blinked up at Foxe, his eyes pleading.
“Isn’t it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
reached down and wrapped his fingers around Frique’s throat. He didn’t want to
see the tech in his dreams, and argue about why he’d had to kill him. But if
Frique knew his plan, could figure out what he was up to in a momentary flash
of fear . . ..</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No.
No need to kill him. He just had to hide him somewhere he wouldn’t be found
quickly. <u>I can leave a note—if I have time</u> . . . but that might get him
into more trouble.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Take
me,” Frique squeaked through Foxe’s grip. “With you. Take . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
don’t want that.” Somewhere in the passageway behind the bulkheads, a dark
corner—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can get you in! I can get you out! Just—get me off this hell-damned station!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
looked at him. No time for distractions. “I work alone.” <u>Except for Val</u>.
“Mostly.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please!
Get me out of here! I’ll help you!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
released Frique’s throat, grabbed his shoulders, and shook his body hard.
“You’ve been here four years and you want to quit now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
think I like being a hell-spawned cloneslaver?” He coughed, a dry hack in the
pit of his throat. “No one leaves. They try. Mishel, three years ago—he tried
to hide on <u>Vini-2</u>. They found him. The vid in the airlock—choking on
vacuum—” His voice rattled. “They showed it to us. Over and over.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
lifted his hands and pulled at Foxe’s vest. “Take me with you! Please!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Damn
it to hellcore. Frique should already be unconscious and bound. But something
in the tech’s shaky voice wouldn’t let Foxe write him off. It wasn’t just fear
he heard, but something else. Desperation. Hope.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
dug his fingers into Frique’s shoulder as deep as he could. “You interfere and I’ll
kill you, and if I have time it’ll hurt. If I don’t have time, you’ll never see
it coming. Any questions?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
eyes lit up like shooting stars. “Yes! Yes, whatever you say! Thank you!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foxe
let him go, and he fell away, trembling. “And you called me kind of strange,”
Foxe muttered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”
Frique took two deep breaths. “Okay. I can get you there, but we have to be
quiet. And fast.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
argument there.” He shut down the handcomp and yanked the linking cable loose.
He wrapped it around his wrist. Closest thing to a weapon available, unless he
found a pulser lying around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
wanted to contact Val, tell her he was on his way to the target. But they’d
agreed on silence until one of them was actually in the room, and he couldn’t
think of a solid reason to change that now. Too much could go wrong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frique
headed to the opening. “Are we going?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
didn’t trust the tech. Couldn’t afford to, even believing Frique wanted off
this station almost as anxiously as Foxe. But he didn’t have time to search for
more options. “Lead the path. Don’t get too far ahead of me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right,
right.” He ducked his head into the passageway, eager to get moving. Before he
lost his nerve? Foxe knew the feeling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Someday
he’d lose his nerve for this work. He just hoped it wasn’t in the middle of a
mission. He hoped it wouldn’t be today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-6911463740146606472014-01-12T20:20:00.000-08:002014-01-12T20:20:08.897-08:00Prodigal Prince, Ch. 17<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
SEVENTEEN: Days</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The genetic
exam was followed by a lengthy series of interviews and medical questionnaires.
Some were collaborative; for others they were separated and the questions
seemed designed to identify points of conflict—what Foxe wanted from the
product, what he thought Val wanted, what would be unacceptable, what he could
live with. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Most of the questions nauseated him. “There are limits to what we can
do,” the technician told Foxe irritably. “We can grow a body with two penises
but we can’t get rid of the other elimination function—you humans call it an
ass hole? We can’t place a sexual organ anywhere you want, like the middle of
the face area—forehead? Not and make it completely functional. Next question:
Breeding. Do you want to procreate with the product?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Unfortunately,
many of Leda’s other clients wanted to share intimate information as freely as
the air. Over a dozen other beings were also on board the cloneslaver facility:
couples, groups, and individuals at different stages of the process. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
A threesome of humanoids from Navarii Prime wanted three identical
children, completely neuter. Two male Udorians wanted a son with equal amounts
of genetic material from both. A female Rann-dishii wanted a clone of her mate,
grown to full adulthood and sculpted to be an exact duplicate that would deceive
all their acquaintances.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most
of them approached either Foxe or Val, or both, for recreational sex the first
night. The facility had no entertainment centers, so bored customers resorted
to whatever diversions they could find in the lone common room near the outer
hull of the station. Late in the evening, a spidery male Lithian shoved Val to
wall in an attempt at rape, or at least violent foreplay. Foxe swung a chair at
his head; it bounced off the hard shell of the being’s carapace, but Val grabbed
one of his thin arms and snapped it off, and then broke it into small pieces.
The arm would grow back, but the Lithian shrieked high-pitched curses while
scuttling away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
sat back down with a hard grunt. “Not even the same species. But that’s not new.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
kill him if you want,” Foxe said quietly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What? Well, of course not.” But she stared at his cold eyes. “Oh. You’d
do it, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
He didn’t answer. But the Lithian didn’t bother her again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Two days
passed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Foxe wasn’t sure when he’d started thinking of her as “Val” instead of
“Valeria.” Or if it meant anything to his subconscious mind. He didn’t know
what name she used for him, but he imagined it wasn’t cute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
He kept a lookout for the Tadori from <u>Quili’s Fire</u> in the common
rooms, but neither he nor Val caught a glimpse of him. They spend most of the
time outside of exam rooms cultivating contacts within the station staff. Foxe struck
up a friendship with a gene-tech named Frique by playing an ongoing game of bacat—and
losing just enough each time to keep Frique coming back for more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Val made her own friends, and Foxe realized that he didn’t want to know
how close she was getting to the Leda staff members she spent time with. “Got
to know how to flirt without losing control,” she said the one time he asked
her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
woke him late on their third night. “Jammer’s on. Time to talk.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded, his brain aching from the dream—a Varrian soldier he’d strangled by a
polluted river. He could still smell the sewage in his mind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Val
sat on the edge of his cot. She wore a T-shirt and shorts, a sight that momentarily
eased his thoughts of death and guilt. He sat up, wishing for a sip of water as
her bare leg nudged against his.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
if she saw his eyes move across her body she ignored it. “Tomorrow they give us
a look at the profiles,” Val said. “We’ll have to pick one, or come up with a
good reason for starting over.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
we’re running out of time.” They could bicker about the specs some more, but
eventually the cloneslavers would get tired of them—or suspicious. And Shrinn
could show up at any time. He didn’t expect him to wait a week for the tag on <u>Quili’s
Fire</u> to expire. He probably had some tools for tracing it more quickly.
“Fine with me. I’d just as soon get off this freak-building factory as soon as
possible.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
have you got?” she asked,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
owe Frique about 300 cees. I can turn it around with another couple of hands,
and he’ll be ready to make a deal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve
got a materials tech named Ben.” She smiled in the darkness. “He thinks I like
him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Whatever
it takes. I can work on Frique first, and if that doesn’t fly—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
shook her head. “Once they tell us to pick a profile, they’ll assemble the
embryo, freeze it, pack it up, and tell us to leave. It’s a matter of hours.
And Shrinn could show up any time. We should move simultaneously.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Part
of him welcomed the opportunity to act on his own, without her interference.
But splitting up doubled the risk if either one of them made a mistake or ran
into bad luck. He shook his head. “I won’t be able to cover you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
need a bodyguard. And I bet you can take care of yourself. Bottom line is, this
is probably our last day here. We can only complain about the fingers so many
times. They’re getting seriously annoyed with you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“With
me? You’re the one being totally unreasonable—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shut
up.” But she smiled. “We’ve got to do this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
was right. He didn’t have to like it, but it made too much sense to argue
about. “All right. I’ll find Frique, get him into a game, and you tease Ben a
little. We’ll see what shakes loose first.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
signals until one of us actually has Rumav.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
tell you I’m taking a nap.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fine.
The other person gets back to the ship—that means you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ve
got the hackware installed to get us through the tether?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ready
and waiting. You can launch it with your gameplayer.” She’d shared a virtual
scenario from her handcomp with one of the genetic engineers, and it had
downloaded a protocol into the network that would let her take control of the
docking functions for a short time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tomorrow.”
He nodded. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
kissed his cheek. “Sweet dreams.” Then she flung herself on the other cot. <br />
“Jammer off.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
rubbed his face. “You awake?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
is it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You know, we haven’t had sex in weeks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Kitt.
If I wanted to have sex with you, we wouldn’t be here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bitch.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Go
to sleep. Or do it yourself. Just stay quiet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
rolled over. “One more day.” They had to find Rumav tomorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rumav
floated on a wave of dreams and nightmares. He was falling through shadows,
trying to scream, unable to move. His skin burned, and a stabbing pain in his
stomach seemed to grow deeper and more intense every time he tried to breathe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
eyes popped open. He tried to curse, but his mouth was too dry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Why
were they doing this to him? <u>Don’t they know who I am</u>? No, they couldn’t
find out. He couldn’t tell them—tell them—<u>I am Rumav Sil Aldoz! Heir to the
Century Throne of Riskannon! The Emperor will destroy you! My father . . . my
father</u>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hanbor.
Material.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>9749. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
floated in an AG field, his wrists and ankles locked in a spreadeagled
position. If he twisted his head he could see the tubes in his arms and legs
and chest, but he kept his eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t want to see what
they’d done to him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
blinked, and his eyes hurt. Everything hurt. How long had he been floating
here? He hoped it was years. The more time he spent here, the sooner it would
be over. He tried to move his arms, to fight the invisible restraints around
his wrists and shoulders, but the field was too tight, or he was too weak. A
surge of anger overcame his despair for just a moment. Let me go! You can’t do
this! You can’t . . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. He could only close his eyes again and go
back to sleep. Oblivion beckoned enticingly, but he wasn’t ready to give into
it yet. The fear of never coming back out, spending an eternity in restless
dreams until they faded to darkness—that was still more powerful than the pain
and sense of helplessness that tortured him when he was conscious. Awake was
still alive. He knew who he was, who he’d been. He could still hope.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
what? A chance to scream, to spit in a face, to tremble with rage? That was all
he had left to hope for. <u>Father </u>. . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
shadow moved at the edge of his vision. His father? Soldiers? Rescue?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
not supposed to be conscious,” said Ben. His eyes were like dark diamonds. “I
have to adjust—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Heeelllppp
. . .” Rumav breathed, so low he almost couldn’t hear his own whisper. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
have to go back.” He lifted an arm to a control behind Rumav’s head. “They need
you quiet for the procedure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nnooo
. . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
won’t hurt. Nothing hurts.” A snort of laughter, cut off with an effort.
“Someone wants an embryo with your fingers. Your fingers, blue-moon eyes, red
hair, male and female genitals—it all goes in, gets mixed up, and goes out.
There’ll be pieces of you scattered across the galaxy. That’s not bad, is it?”
Ben’s chuckle was a faraway rumble. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
am . . ..” Clouds drifted over his eyes. “Hanbor . . . Rumav . . . 9749 . . .
Heir . . . Father . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
a moment he was home again. Back in the Century Palace, gazing out over
Swordhead Bay, his mother next to him, his father—where? He didn’t know. It
didn’t matter. He was home. Safe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Darkness
covered him like a soft sheet. He couldn’t remember why he’d ever wanted to
fight it. He just wanted to go home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-35321044414064572272014-01-12T20:16:00.001-08:002014-01-12T20:16:48.863-08:00Prodigal Prince, Ch. 11-16<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
ELEVEN: Branch</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The andy inserted Foxe’s counterfeit badge into a reader; the display flashed an instant “I.C. 700.” Two or three days’ worth of station fees, not too high or too small, an amount that wouldn’t trigger any security flags. He shoved an ID-free credit chip into the slot and tapped in a confirmation code. <u>Hurry</u>, he urged it. He kept his face calm, his breathing light. The andy’s receptors would pick up excessive levels of stress.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Two slow seconds, and then the chip reader’s beadlights shifted from amber to green. “A detailed readout of your charges is available,” the android said.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“No.” Foxe tossed his badge on the desk and headed</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You may proceed,” the andy said. “We welcome your return—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe walked away. Spark had always said “thank you” to andys. Of course, he’d sung to his ships, and probably thanked every toilet that flushed for him. Foxe taunted him for it.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But Spark was dead. <u>Damn this universe</u>.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No time for that right now. His upsurge of energy was fading, and if he wasn’t careful he’d relax and start making mistakes. He had to get back to locating and tagging <u>Quili’s Fire</u> as soon as possible. He could sleep in D-space if he had to.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Down the gray corridor. Tiny cleaning bots scrubbed graffiti and grime from the walls. A humanoid male snored on the deck, naked, shivering in his sleep. Foxe paused and pulled off his lab coat. He spread it over the man. A hatch slammed and he straightened up quickly; two Khonians clambered out into the corridor, stretching their backs and groaning.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Glancing over his shoulder, Foxe increased his pace. The good and bad thing about the Branch was lack of cover. Thieves and burglars had nowhere to hide, but the long straight corridor exposed everyone. It was a shooting gallery waiting for the first weapon to fire.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
His ship waited up ahead. Just a few dozen meters more . . .</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A head popped out of an open hatch. His hatch.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aje.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Their eyes locked. Aje’s face was flat, expressionless. Recognition but no fear. He ducked back inside the hatch.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe flattened himself against the bulkhead and reached for his pulser.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
What would Aje do? Call in some support? Or take the offensive and come out shooting? <u>It’s what I’d do</u>. The next few heartbeats . . ..</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aje came surging through the hatch, firing a big Kobar pistol.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Ion pulses seared the bulkhead next to Foxe’s scalp. Foxe fired back as Aje skidded across the deck on his belly. Foxe’s aim was no better than his—two plasma bolts sailed over Aje’s head and seared a bulkhead. But his third shot burned the deck next to Aje’s leg, and a few stray particles of plasma splashed on Aje’s knee like white-hot lava. Aje dropped the Kobar and clutched at his leg, howling in pain and anger.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Shouts of anger began swirling up and down the passageway. Foxe checked over his shoulder. Shrinn could have a squad converging on him, or even a small army. And he had only a few minutes before the Crystal Blades showed up, ready for a fight, looking for someone to pay for the disturbance and damage. The Blades would lock off the Cat. By the time he sorted things out and paid everyone off, Rumav and <u>Quili’s Fire</u> would be light years away, impossible to trace.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe leaned forward for a quick glimpse through the hatch. Was Aje working alone—or with a team? He half-expected an ion blast to come streaming through the opening. Instead a slashing kick hit his shoulder, sending his pulser flying across the deck.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He jumped back, grabbing for the wavedagger in his boot as a female, slender and blonde with eyes as sharp as diamonds shoved away from the hatch. Her weapon was identical to Aje’s but she didn’t take her shot, more concerned with getting away from the—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The deck shook beneath his legs, a rippling vibration like an avalanche that sent the female sprawling onto her hands and knees at Foxe’s feet. He felt a crashing motion, like waves breaking against the bulkhead.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
His first thought was a stray asteroid striking the station, but anything massive enough to shake the Branch this hard would have been detected and deflected by station defenses.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A klaxon pounded at his eardrums. A bright red light flashed on the entry pad beside his hatch. Words scrolled across the pad in large amber letters: HATCH SEALED . . . DO NOT ATTEMPT TO OPEN . . . POSSIBLE HULL BREACH . . . HATCH SEALED . . ..</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Hellcore</u>. They’d blown up his Cat.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The female was on her feet again, stumbling down the passageway. She reached down to haul Aje along with her. Aje tried to shake her off, pointing toward Foxe. She’d holstered her weapon, apparently more concerned with coming to Aje’s rescue than terminating Foxe, now that she’d destroyed his ability to escape.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe’s wavedagger was useless now. He looked down at the deck, searching for his pulser. There. He lunged across the deck for it. In the moment it took him to bring it up Aje had gotten to his feet.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Lanesh!” Aje shouted at the female. “Just go!” But she ignored him, pulling Aje toward an access shaft that would take them to a different wedge of the Branch.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe’s shot missed her. A hatch opened next to her shoulder, and a human male head popped out, eyes wide and mouth open to demand an explanation. The woman’s arm shot out like a whip and wrapped around his neck, yanking him forward. She spun him around, one arm locked across his neck, and then she grabbed her ion pistol from the holster and jammed it against the human’s ear. Staring at Foxe.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The human’s arms flailed, his lips trembling. He stared at Foxe in confusion merging quickly with terror.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Go!” Lanesh shouted, and Aje tumbled into the access shaft, leaving a bloodstain on the deck. She tightened her arm around her prisoner’s throat. His face grew red.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe remembered a time when he would have shot through a hostage without hesitation. He saw their faces at night, like the little girl’s, repeating the same question until he screamed in his sleep: <u>Why . . . why . . . why . .</u> .</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He nodded, lowered his pulser. But kept his arm ready to bring it back up into action. “Okay. Your win, this round.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She smiled.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Then the choking human, frantic, stabbed his elbow into Lanesh’s ribs. He was gasping in loud hacking groans, spit flicking from his mouth, twisting his body in an attempt to loosen the arm around his throat.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Her foot slipped. Her eyes flickered with uncertainty, looking from Foxe to her hostage.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The captive slammed his head back into her face. Her hand jerked, and—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Maybe an accident. Or maybe she decided her hostage was too much trouble. The weapon went off. The hostage flew out of her arms, half of his face contorted in surprise and anger and the other half of his head . . . gone.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Lanesh jumped back, off balance, as the captive collapsed to the deck. Her feet skittered as she brought her weapon up with both hands.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe shot her in the chest. Her eyes flared wide, as if she’d just realized her mistake, and then she dropped, flat on her back. The ion pistol bounced on the deck as she stared at the ceiling through sightless eyes.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Stupid,” Foxe whispered, though whether he meant the captive for struggling, or the woman for shooting him—or himself for being here in the first place—he couldn’t have said at that particular moment. Maybe everyone.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aje leaned through the access shaft hatch, his face pale and sweaty. Foxe pointed his pulser and he jerked away, missing the plasma burst.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Alarms pounded in his ears. The Blades would arrive soon. His ship was gone. The hostage was dead. Would he visit Foxe in the darkness?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No time to worry about that now. Foxe staggered toward the access shaft and plunged in.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aje was nowhere in sight above him. Fear must have given him speed. Foxe reached inside the access shaft, grabbed a rung, and began to climb, scrambling upward, breathing deeply, ignoring his fear. The rungs were spaced half a meter apart. Most beings around the galaxy could climb a ladder, though Ustalli had trouble roping their tentacles around the rungs. But ladders didn’t suffer from power failures. Sometimes low tech was the best solution.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He emerged from the top of the shaft into a long zero-gee cylindrical passageway. The central axis of the Branch. No Aje. He pushed off toward another shaft at random. The momentary freedom of weightlessness calmed his hammering heart temporarily. Then he flipped over and pushed his feet down, letting the gravity pull him into the opening. His arms shook as he gripped the ladder. <u>Breathe</u>, he told himself. He tightened his feet around the sides and slid down, counting the rungs, letting each one take some of his fear away. At the bottom of the shaft he wiped his hands on his vest and felt better. The fear wasn’t gone—it would never disappear completely, no matter how often he whispered the Bekkan chant—but he could manage it now. Fear was like gravity, always pulling you down. You had to learn how to balance it with your mind.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He stepped out into the passageway and leaned against the bulkhead, resting his legs a moment, and darted a quick glance up and down, hand on his pulser.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No sign of Aje, but he wasn’t the main problem right now. Foxe needed transportation. Stealing a ship would be difficult. Not impossible, but a decent starship of any size would be keyed to recognize only its authorized pilot and Foxe didn’t have any hackware sophisticated enough to bypass the barriers, at least not very quickly. Kidnap an owner? He’d be at the mercy of the ship’s internal defenses. Bribe a captain? That could get him off the station, but he needed to track Rumav somehow.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe couldn’t sit down on the deck pondering the perfect strategy. With a deep breath, he stepped away from the bulkhead and started up the Branch.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A hatch opened up ahead. A female Udorian’s head popped out. She turned toward Foxe as if looking for someone. After a full second she pulled herself back in, closing the hatch with a firm yank. No help for Foxe there.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Two tall human males jumped from an access shaft. They glanced at Foxe, and then one looked past him. The other slapped a hand across his chest and shook his head. The first one laughed.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe took a quick look over his shoulder. Human female, attractive—for a moment envied the tall ones who had nothing more to worry about than a chance at sex. She was bald, her skull gleaming in the glare of the lighttubes, and she wore a sleeveless blue shipsuit, a duffel slung over one bare shoulder, her long arms swinging . . .</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Her jade green eyes glowing with purpose.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Those eyes were impossible to lose. But her arms were what caught Foxe’s attention. Slender and taut, they looked strong enough to rip his head from his shoulders. And her fingers . . . he’d seen them tapping a bid onto M’tajj’s slate.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Valeria,” he said.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She blinked just once, as if he’d materialized in front of her from nowhere. “You.” She let the duffel slip down her shoulder and caught the strap, preparing to hurl it at him.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“My ship got blown up.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She rolled her eyes. “Things seem to get destroyed when you’re around, don’t they? Maybe you should think about changing careers. Go home and get some training in hologame design.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“It was Shrinn’s people. The same ones who attacked M’tajj. They’re looking for Rumav, too.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Rumav? Who is—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Don’t waste our time. You know who he is. I know where he is.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“He’s a popular kid. So?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
This wasn’t perfect option, but it was the best one he could think of right now. “I need a ship.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She snorted. “You want mine? Riiight.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We can—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She swung the duffel up in a blink of motion so fast Foxe saw only a blur before he felt it jolt his shoulder. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding a follow-up kick that would have cracked a rib. Their pulsers rose like angry snakes. He stared at her fingers, watching for the squeeze that would tell him he’d gambled on her and lost. Who was this woman?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We don’t need to get ugly,” Foxe said.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Then stay out of my way.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I know where he is,” Foxe repeated.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She flicked her eyes past him and then once over her shoulder. The humans who’d been leering at her had ducked back into their ship. The tube was empty for twenty meters in each direction. “Okay. Tell me.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He shook his head. “We go together.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A crazy idea, sure. But at least she had a stake in the same game—finding Rumav.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Her face curved in a skeptical smile. “You trust me?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Of course not. You?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sure. Like a brother. Of course, my brother tried to rape me when I was thirteen. You figure it.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He spoke as urgently as he could. “Then we’ve got two things in common. We hate each other and we both want to find the kid. The Aligned Worlds wrote the First Charter with less than that.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He could feel her eyes drilling into him, trying to hack his thoughts. A reassuring smile wouldn’t reach her. He met her gaze with a challenge. <u>Do you have the nerve</u>? Her bidding maneuver with M’tajj proved she was smart, willing to take risks. Now he had to bet that she needed to find Rumav as urgently as he did, and that she wouldn’t back down from trouble—any more than he could.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Valeria held out her hand, palm up. “Your weapon.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Of course. He reversed the pulser in his hand and held it out. “You want the wavedagger too?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She shook her head. “You’re not going to get that close to me.” She jammed his pulser into a pocket. “Now where’s Rumav?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“When we’re in your ship.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Valeria grinned. “Good. I didn’t think you were stupid.” She jerked a finger over his shoulder. “Hatch 2.43.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He turned his back on her. Letting her know he wasn’t afraid, and telling her she didn’t have the guts to shoot him in the spine. The two humans watched with a mixture of admiration and pity as he passed them.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He stood next to the hatch and let Valeria enter the code and press her palm to the reader. The hatch popped open. Valeria motioned him through and followed, keeping her distance. A dozen meters down the docking ramp they reached the hatch to her ship, and she punched another code and stood for a retinal scan.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Through the airlock, he found himself in a wide entryway that stretched in two directions. She gestured right. “Cockpit.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He passed one secured door and stepped through an opening at the end of the passage. Valeria gave him a shove. “Move.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The bright cockpit was larger than his Oberix apartment. Multiple control panels blinked as if craving attention and instructions. The seats looked brand new, no crumbs or stains or patches. One of the six viewscreens stretched from the deck to ceiling, displaying an outlook of the dozens of ships floating in space just off the Branch, shuttles zipping between them.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We’re powered up. Strap in.” Valeria pointed to a synskin couch in the rear, between a large food and beverage dispenser.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Don’t touch anything?” Foxe asked.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She smirked. “Touch whatever you want. Only equipment that’s not keyed to me is the waste flusher.” </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He sank into the couch, ignoring the grateful release of his muscles, and reached for the harness straps. Valeria perched on a control seat, her back to him, but he saw a small box in a corner of her monitor. He waved an arm and saw the motion mirrored on the screen.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Yes,” she snapped. “I am watching you.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Smart. As well as gorgeous.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Shut up.” She tapped a key. “Crystal Rendevous Control, request immediate cast off and query: position of starship <u>Quili’s Fire</u>.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe opened his mouth. Then closed it. She knew. <u>Hellcore</u>.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She swung in her chair with a grin. “Ready to go?” Navigational data jumped across the monitor.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He met her jade eyes with a guarded nod. “The sooner the better. But why am I here if you already knew—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“M’tajj’s system sent me the data automatically when he accepted my bid—right after he took my money. I’m out 40,000 cees to a corpse right now. But I can afford that. Hang on.” She poked a touchscreen with her finger. Foxe felt a surge of acceleration.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Rich bitch</u>. “So you managed to tag <u>Quili’s Fire</u>?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Do you think I’m an amateur? Gemstone hotpainted it as soon as I had the name.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Gemstone? Foxe shot a glance over his shoulder. Did she have a team? “Who is—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“This is <u>Gemstone</u>.” She patted a panel. “My ship. My baby.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>She names her ships</u>. <u>Great</u>. “Any chance Shrinn doesn’t know how to tag a ship too? Maybe he missed that class in whatever military academy he went to.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Don’t you listen?” She glared at Foxe, exasperated. “I didn’t say tag. Three dots of hotpaint will scramble any military-grade tag.” She grinned brightly. “Gemstone painted nine on the hull. It’ll take Shrinn weeks to untangle all the strings.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe couldn’t calculate the cost of that much hotpaint in his head. “You can double my bid sight unseen, you can afford high-q hotpaint—Why do you bother to work if you've got that kind of money?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She rubbed her hand across her bare scalp. “A girl gets bored, you know?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Who are you?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She spun in her chair and tapped commands into the Board. “Valeria Lynd. I’m a bounty hunter based on Claudius Station. I’m level ten in k-bola, scored three-tenths off perfect in shooting last time I registered with the Marksman’s Guild, and rated 97<sup>th</sup> percentile in hostage situation at the Breckman Institute on Sator-Three. Who are you?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He held up his hands, fingers wide in mock surrender. “Freelance. I’m—just a freelance.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She cocked her head, skeptical. “Riiight.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Why am I here? You never needed me.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You were coming—one way or another.” Valeria swung back to the NavBoard. “Friends close, enemies closer.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
TWELVE: Aje</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Shrinn’s ship was a Mavron-class cruiser from the Covert Operations Directorate. No official name, just an alphanumeric designation. The crew had tried to give it a nickname—Jatrinn, after a pornographic figure based on Jatril tal-Eldir Aldoz, the High Lady, spouse of the Century Emperor. As much as he despised the name of Naden Mor Aldoz, Shrinn had prohibited had prohibited it from the beginning. Treason was punishable by imprisonment, but disrespect earned the team Shrinn’s contempt. They’d been together long enough to know how unpleasant that could be.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
It had once been a cargo transport. Now its weapons lockers were stuffed with everything from sliverbeams to pulsejet launchers, and its hull was equipped with spider mines and the best survey gear the Empire could buy or steal from AW. To Shrinn it was better than the finest luxury yacht.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
They were cleared to detach from Crystal Rendevous. His pilot Olare was already linked into the NavBoard, cables connecting her brainware to the computer, ready to guide them through D-space once hey got the signal from the tag they’d planted on its hull. Lilliar, in the engine center, had the Forward Drive ready for transition.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Shrinn had hoped to intercept <u>Quili’s Fire</u> before it escaped into D-space. But he had to wait for everyone on his team.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
For Lanesh.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The team knew, of course. Impossible to hide anything important from soldiers who’d worked together for years.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“It’s Aje.” Declannes, a young soldier with nerves of ice, glanced over her shoulder at Shrinn’s command chair from his station at the CommBoard. “He’s—he’s alone.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Shrinn kept his face stony, but the word sent a chill through his spine. That was wrong. Aje and Catret had been sent to Foxe’s ship, to assist Lanesh in setting the explosive. Yulin was supposed to join them in the Branch.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Maybe she’d sent Aje ahead. He hoped . . .</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Shouts. He looked around. Aje swayed in the doorway to the cockpit, shaking Mateon’s supporting hand off his shoulder. “Sir, I . . .” He lurched forward, reaching for the headrest of a chair to steady himself, but he missed and then fell, crashing to the deck like a wounded eagle. Blood seeped from his leg.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The staineating fibers in the carpet soaked it up greedily. Aje fought to sit up, pushing Mateon away as he tried to support him. Shrinn saw dread in Aje’s eyes, a fear more powerful than the pain in his body.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He’d seen that dread before. Failure had consequences, punishment, but it also offered a chance for redemption. This was worse than failure. This was—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Jonash, the team’s medic, jumped into the cockpit. “Aje, you defective—” He snapped his medkit open. “Sit still and let me look at that!”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sir, my report—” Aje closed his eyes, fighting the pain.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Hold off, Jonash,” Shrinn said. His voice seemed to come from a distant star. “Report.” Shrinn’s voice was quiet and tight.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“But he’s going to—” Jonash, short and stocky and strong, stopped when he saw Shrinn’s eyes. “Make it quick, Aje.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aje opened his eyes, then looked away from Shrinn, breathing hard. “Lanesh . . . dead, sir.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Hearing it didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected. He felt—nothing. An emptiness. He’d been through this before, with—other members of his team. Soldiers died. But Lanesh—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The need to remain calm, in control, took over automatically. <u>Don’t let them see you react. No matter what</u>. “What happened?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“It was Foxe. He shot her.” His face was sweating. “I couldn’t do anything. I tried.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He let her die. <u>Son of a clonewhore! Incompetent</u> . . .</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Shrinn looked at the blood. “You were wounded.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Badly,” Jonash said. His hands flexed in frustration as he watched the blood soak Aje’s shipsuit.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“He got to his Cat while Lanesh was setting the implosion trigger. He killed Catret, and Yulin. Yulin was late, the idiot. But the ship is destroyed. Sir.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe’s ship. What difference did that make? “Foxe?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aje blinked, helpless. “He—got free. I don’t know . . . but his ship . . .”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
They’d done their job. All right. But Foxe . . . the name was a growl in his brain. Shrinn wanted to slap Aje, kick him, strangle the breath from him. <u>Foxe</u>—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He pushed it aside. “Help him,” he told Jonash.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Yes, sir.” The medic sighed with relief as he knelt next to Aje. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Shrinn turned, his arms and legs heavy as stone. “Cast off,” he told Olare.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Yes, sir.” She swiveled her chair to face the NavBoard, eager for an excuse to avoid his eyes.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“<u>Quili’s Fire</u>’s Forward drive is active,” Mateon reported. “They are transitioning.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Be ready to receive the tag.” He wanted to sit but his muscles were locked.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sir.” Aje.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Damn him, what more did he have to say? Shrinn turned. “Yes?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I’m . . . sorry. Sir.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Apologies. Did he really believe Shrinn needed his sympathy? When he was alive and Lanesh—Lanesh? How did he dare—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Aje. Let Jonash fix you up.” He couldn’t smile, but he managed a nod of some reassurance. “We need you healthy.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Yes, sir.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Get him out of here,” he told Jonash, more sharply than he intended.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aje was a good man. Not smart, but brave and tough when it mattered. Lanesh’s death wasn’t his fault. Even though—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No. That wouldn’t change anything. Lanesh was dead. And Foxe—He pictured Foxe in his mind. Dying. His body mangled, bleeding, ripped apart. Shrinn took a slow breath, enjoying the vision. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Rumav was still the primary objective of their mission. The Century Heir—son of Naden, the traitor. Shrinn would find him, stop him, kill him if necessary. For a brief moment he wished he could cram Darel’s orders down a wastehole. But that wasn’t his way. Command—he followed the chain of command, no matter how difficult it was. Foxe knew nothing about that. Or him.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe would learn about him, though. And he would suffer before he died.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sir?” Mateon’s voice was clenched.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“What?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“There’s a—a problem with the tag. Sir.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
THIRTEEN: Riskannon</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Where is my son</u>?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
It was the question that eclipsed every thought, every breath. When she was able to sleep, she asked it in her dreams. It was the first thing she wanted to say when Naden entered their apartment in the Century Palace, and she saw it in his eyes whenever he looked away from her.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Jatril tal-Eldir Aldoz, the High Lady of Riskannon, stared through the shockglass at the lights of Ressick and the darkness of Swordhead Bay, its waterfront docks jammed with yachts and pleasure craft; the massive cargo barges floated farther out, smaller ships hauling their loads into port and returning for more. Even under the night sky business went on in the city, all the reassuring evidence of trade, prosperity, and profit. But Jatril couldn’t watch it, any more than she could sleep.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Where is my son</u>?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She heard Naden’s footsteps on the stone floor outside her bedchamber. She didn’t turn. If he had good news his pace would be quicker. He’d call out to her. Even if the word was . . . the worst thing she could think of. She closed her eyes.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“There isn’t any news.” Naden stopped inside the door, as if he didn’t dare approach her with failure.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I know.” She turned and looked at him. Still handsome, his long braids only slightly wispy from the hours he had to spend on his official duties despite the awful uncertainty of the situation. Negotiating with Family representatives who should have been allies, persuading his own Council to carry out his directives, cajoling his political enemies to withhold their opposition . . . she wanted to draw him to bed, open herself to him, help him forget for at least a few minutes that anything else mattered but her love, her body, her passion for the man who had selected her to become High Lady.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But that was impossible now. <u>Where is my son</u>?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“The AW has no report.” His voice was bitter. “They tell me their operatives are frequently unable to report in on a timely basis. This agent is supposed to be reliable, efficient . . .” He shook his head. “Fourteen hells.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We couldn’t trust HomeGuard or StarForce.” Jatril’s bitterness matched his. “That’s what you said.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You understood the—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I know!” They couldn’t trust their own forces. “There’s too much going on. I know that.” Jatril’s arm trembled as she picked up a pitcher of pale Wenndal District wine from the nearby table.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I don’t accept sacrificing Rumav. No matter what.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We didn’t have a lot of choices.” Neither one of us. I hope someday he understands that. She poured a glass, offered it to him.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He took the wine and watched her poured a glass of her own. They clicked together.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“What about . . .” She took a sip. The wine was sweet, like honey in the spring. “What about Darel’s project?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Naden sighed. “I hope we know enough. The reports are on time, if I can believe them. It would be easier if I just didn’t trust him at all. But we need him if we’re going to have any credibility in the end.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We have to trust someone.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I trust you. Almost no one else.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Jatril gave a wan smile. “You told Rumav once to trust you and me and almost no one else, no matter how loyal they’ve been or what promises they make.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Naden shook his head. “I gave him lots of advice. Did he listen to any of it?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“He grew up watching us. We didn’t hide him from reality. Except for—” She shrugged. “He learned from us.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Naden nodded. “I only hope he learned the right lessons.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Where was Rumav Sil Aldoz?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Darel Tur Calibron’s temples ached from anger, tension, frustration. So soon . . . just a few more months, maybe just weeks. But if the Century Heir reached his destination—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The office was the largest room in his Ministry-provided apartment, a reminder that residence in the Century Houses was a privilege to be earned with work, not a refuge for recreation. The kitchen was for brief meals, not feasts; the bedroom was for quick naps, not lengthy sexual romps. This central, secure office was meant to be every Minister’s focal point—the reason he or she merited a Ministry residence.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Darel leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking around the room. He kept his office spare and utilitarian. Desk, chairs, computer workstations, vid consoles—only the portrait on the wall hinted at anything beyond his dedication to the Ministry’s work. His father: Murtha Lan Calibron. In full uniform. A Wing Captain with the Riskannon Star Force.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Killed in a skirmish in the Taormika system.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He’d only uncovered the true details when he’d been named to the post of Third Minister, but he and his family had always known the facts. The government classified the reports, kept them hidden away, but they all knew Murtha hadn’t died in a transition failure over Kanner’s World.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
More lies. The government thrived on lies. No matter which Family held the Century Throne.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The computer display interrupted his thoughts. Message coming through. Maybe—he shook his head, angry at his eagerness, his wishful thinking. He planned, he worked, he manipulated and lied just as purposefully as the Century Emperor and the rest of his Council, but he never expected easy conclusions. To have power, to change the course of the Republic, he anticipated nothing but effort and disappointment on the road to a victory that would certainly be mixed with defeat.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But even defeat would be preferable to living the lie that an enemy could ever become an ally.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He unfolded his arms and touched a key. An image solidified on the screen in front of him. Vinas Dan Partir wore his Sixth Command military uniform like an artist’s smock, loose and casual, as if rank and formality were nothing to him. Behind him Darel saw the shadows of his office at Military Command, but no hint of movement. Good.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Good evening, minister.” Vinas was leaning toward the monitor, his youthful face in need of a shave. “My apologies for the late message. I am sending you the latest material regarding the Eldron project on Triannon. I hope it meets with your approval. Glory to the Century Throne.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The image faded. <u>Glory to the Throne</u>. Darel felt his neck tense, his eyes suddenly dry and scratchy. He highlighted Vinas’ attachment, and the computer screen turned blank, as if a blue curtain had dropped over it. Then a green star burst in its center. The words beneath it were bright scarlet. <u>InfraNet tranmission . . . Privacy Three protocols engaged . . . confirm/deny</u>.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Confirm.” He leaned forward so the green star could read his retina. In a moment it faded, the words disappeared, and the schematics of a Herculon-class power station appeared, images from 12 angles, interior and exterior, with detailed descriptions of materials and components for creating energy, transmitting it through resistance-free neocortese bundles, and safeguarding the station’s perimeter from attack and sabotage.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He glanced through the data and found the link he needed, a line of text with the words <u>To be determined at future date</u> highlighted. He clicked to open the file.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A thin, stony face filled the screen. Shrinn.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Status report.” Shrinn looked uncomfortable. Angry. “The subject has been taken from Crystal Rendezvous by a group of cloneslavers. We are attempting to track them, but are delayed due to . . .” His face tensed. “Due to an unexplained failure in the Q-tag placed on the slaver’s ship. The technical details are—irrelevant. We will be able to re-establish contact with the tag, and resume pursuit shortly, and presumably, the subject will remain a prisoner of the cloneslavers for quite some time. The team has suffered . . . casualties.” He took a deep breath. “But we remain on task. Further reports will be sent through the usual protocols. Shrinn out.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Darel instantly erased the message, using the scrubber thoughtfully provided by Ministry Security as well as a secondary program developed by one of his own family. It would download a virus into any network that attempted to retrieve the message, one that would take hours or days to eradicate.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
In time a skilled comptech would be able to dig the message up, of course. And others might identify the source of the virus. Darel accepted the risks he was taking. He only wanted the opportunity to take action before anyone could arrest him.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Cloneslavers. That might be as good a solution as anything. Rumav wouldn’t escape, wherever their harvesting facility was. But he could conceivably be identified. And a demand for ransom would give Naden the opportunity he needed to launch the full strength of the military on a rescue mission.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Of course, all Darel needed was to prevent Rumav from getting to Taormika. Perhaps when Shrinn located the facility he could leak the information to the AW MilForce somehow . . .</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No. Whatever the advantages, his original plan was simpler. Capture Rumav. Kill him if necessary, or at least hold onto him until no one could stop Jerricor.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He crossed his arms again. The Emperor was probably asleep right now. Or in bed, with that commoner he’d brought into the Century Palace. <u>Enjoy your sleep</u>, <u>Naden Mor Aldoz</u>, Darel thought. <u>Your time is almost over</u>.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
FOURTEEN: Gemstone</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He cowered behind the metal storage locker, covering his head with his arms, trying to muffle his mother’s screams. Three Varrian soldiers were taking turns with her. <u>Hide</u>, she’d told him. <u>Stay back here and don’t come out no matter what happens. Promise</u>.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He’d promised. And heard everything. He was six years old.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But then his arms felt different. Bigger, heavier. He’d grown up. He was strong. He didn’t have to cower. He rose up on tall legs and to face the hulking bastards. They’d removed most of their armor to have their fun and they hadn’t expected any interruptions. Foxe clutched a flechette rifle in one hand and he jerked the trigger violently, sending streams of barbed darts into their ugly flesh, smiling as their blood burst through their skin and they howled in rage and pain.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
When they were dead he felt cheated, betrayed. He wanted them to suffer for hours, squirming in agony, begging for mercy, knowing they wouldn’t get any. He stepped around the locker and spit on the nearest corpse.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“E-Erick . . . ”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Mother. He knelt next to her, holding her face next to his chest. “Why d-didn’t you save me?” she whispered.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He clenched his fists. They were small, his hand chubby and pink. He was a child again.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You told me,” he said. “You told me to hide.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Good. You did it right. I’m going . . . I just need to rest.” She closed her eyes.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Why didn’t you save me</u>?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
His eyes jerked open. Where the hellcore—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Right. He let his head drop, looking up at the cabin ceiling. Valeria’s yacht. Somewhere in D-space.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He lifted his comm bracelet for the time. Four more hours to transition. They’d pop back into the real universe less than a microsecond after leaving, only a few seconds after <u>Quili’s Fire</u>—and Shrinn. He had to be ready.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He took a quick stop in the head, then pulled his shirt and socks out of the clothing refresher. Underwear could wait one more day. He checked the charge of his wavedagger, the one weapon she’d left him with, then slapped the commplate next to the locked door.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Gemstone</u> had two guest cabins. She’d converted them into brigs. Foxe had no doubt he could escape if he had the time—though her locks were more sophisticated than most he’d seen—but there wasn’t much point. She’d pointed out the obvious security measures before sealing him in, and he assumed the yacht had more serious enhancements than shockdart stations and forcefield barriers every ten meters. Besides, they were theoretically on the same side. For the moment.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You’re awake,” Valeria said.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Let me out,” he growled.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The door slid open. “Come up to the pit.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She had his pulser in her lap as he entered the cockpit. “Coffee if you need it. Fruit and pastries. Transition in three hours, fifty-two minutes. Stay on that side of the room.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Good to see you, too.” He filled a mug with coffee and pulled some tiel-melon from the dispenser.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She’d taken off her shipsuit and sat in black shorts and a sleeveless white tunic, her feet bare. Was she trying to distract him? Her body had hard muscles that came from training and exercise, not the tension lines that came from genetic remodeling and nanosurgical sculpting. Her scalp was still uncovered, smooth like an eggshell except for a shallow dent on the side of her skull. He wondered if it was the result of an injury. Brain damage might explain some of her behavior.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe had always worked alone. He didn’t have to worry that someone else’s mistakes might get him killed, and he didn’t want his own errors to put anyone else at risk. Even if he trusted this woman, he couldn’t risk relying on her.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But she looked good.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You didn’t sleep well,” she said.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You were watching me?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She shrugged. “Cheap thrills. Was the bed bad?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
His dreams were his own business. “I’ve slept in ditches and launch tubes and cells. This wasn’t any worse.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She nodded. “Cells—guessing you spent a lot of time in the brig. AW MilForce, right?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“They said I had an attitude problem.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She cocked her head. “Not a surprise here. No neuro treatments?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“No. No neuro, no nano, no reflex enhancements, no combat augmentation . . .” He stopped, aware of the anger in his voice.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“No wonder they didn’t like your attitude. What were you? Cook? Latrine maintenance?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sniper.” He swallowed a chunk of melon. “And sabotage specialist. This tastes fresh.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Best freezing tech in the galaxy, according to the marketing materials. Sabotage? Sounds glamorous. No point in wasting top nanotech on someone who’s just getting himself blown up or blown away.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sniper too. You get to shoot things from far away.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Before you get a chance to annoy anyone. Which happens a lot, I’m guessing.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe sipped his coffee. “And yet, here I am. What’s your story? Valeria Lynd, Bounty hunter. Let me guess—a lot of adventure vids as a child?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Every girl needs a hobby.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Let’s cut the kral—ever heard of Dimon Jakarti?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
For a moment her loose tunic didn’t distract him. “The terrorist? Atreos Cell?” Dimon Jakarti and the Atreos Cell had unleashed biological devastation on three AW systems. The reward posted for his capture was more than he made in a year.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Know who brought him in?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He’d read the reports. ARI had tracked Jakarti to a moon on the far side of the galaxy, and then . . . “Okay. You?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Aligned Research took the credit, I got the credits.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Bad joke—but an impressive operation, if she was telling the truth. Foxe nodded. “That sounds pretty typical for ARI.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sounds like you know them.” She was probing—trying to decide who he worked for, how far she could trust him.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe set his mug down and looked at her. She met his searching gaze with an expectant expression, as if any response he gave, even a denial, would tell her something interesting. She didn’t need him—or at least she thought she didn’t. But he needed her, until he had access to another ship. The thought irritated him. He’d never liked depending on anyone, except Spark and a handful of others.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But she could have left him on Crystal Rendezvous, or tried to kill him as he slept. Instead she was waiting for an answer. Any answer. What was her game?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He shrugged. “I work for ARI. Contract basis.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“What are they paying you to find Rumav?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Who posted a bounty on him?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Not an open bounty,” she warned. “Private contract. So don’t think you can collect anything on top of whatever ARI is paying you.” </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe was exasperated with her after five minutes of jousting. “Fine. Whose contract?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“ ‘Private?’ ” she repeated. “Check your language package for a definition.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
What was her problem? “We can debate your business ethics another time. Shrinn wants to kill Rumav. If he does we can both lick our contracts good-bye.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She cocked her head, skeptical. “So we should make friends?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Friends, allies—I don’t like to lose, and I don’t think you do either.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
After a moment she nodded. “First thing you’ve said I can agree with.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I’m stunned. Do we shake hands now?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Valeria smirked. Then she turned and leaned over the CommBoard. Foxe watched the muscles in her arm as she tapped a sequence “If you really work for ARI, you must know how to keep your mouth shut. Remember that.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The screen blinked. A woman with long silver hair stared out at him with poised, penetrating eyes. Her face was stiff but her voice was soft, almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret:</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I am Jatril Tal-Eldir Aldoz, High Lady of the Republic of Riskannon. This statement signifies that I am entering into a contract with Valeria Lynd to locate my son, Rumav Sil Aldoz, and return him safely home. The terms of payment—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Valeria slapped the CommBoard, and the image vanished. “You don’t need to hear all that.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He grinned. “Maybe I do. I might want to renegotiate my rates with ARI.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I’m already regretting this.” She leaned against the edge of the panel, waiting. “So what have you got to share?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Maybe she deserved a fair trade. “Naden Mor Aldoz brought ARI into this.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Interesting.” She nodded, thoughtful. “Maybe the High Lady doesn’t trust ARI.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Maybe the High Lady doesn’t trust her husband.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Trust. It’s a funny thing.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“So where does that leave us?” He stood up. “Do we trust each other? Arm wrestle? Shoot it out right here?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Valeria stood a meter away from him. Facing each other, he had barely five centimeters of height on her. And the muscles he could see in her arms and legs—as well as the icy glint in her green eyes—told him she wouldn’t be easy to kill.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“One question,” she said. “Anything you want. Then I ask you. Then we decide.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He’d expected a pointless fight. Or unrealistic demands—no weapons, a leash on his neck, a pedicure. This was different.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And better. Even a lie would tell them something interesting about each other.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“All right . . .. ” Questions raced through his mind, professional, personal, rude: <u>What made you a bounty hunter? What was your toughest capture? What makes you orgasm? What’s with your hair</u>?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“The first being you killed,” he said. “Tell me why.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She smiled. Relieved, maybe, that he hadn’t asked her anything she considered truly intimate.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I was twenty.” She calculated in her head. “That’s about seventeen years, AW Fiscal. Not in this business yet. I was climbing cliffs at Celtur Canyon on Bellatris with my sister. My family—we were camping. With four andys and a solar-pack for hot showers, but camping. I was about a hundred meters above Adriann, close to the peak. Two suns. One was just coming up but it was already burning. I stopped to rest for a moment on a ridge, about five centimeters wide. To let Adriann catch up. I heard something above. Looked up. Couldn’t see, but I heard it again—breathing. Loud.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She scratched her scalp. “Celtur Canyon runs through an entire continent on Bellatris, and it’s a parkland. Beasts were bioengineered decades ago to remove dangerous traits. But mutations still get into the mix. Saw a newsvid piece about—” She shook her head. “Never mind. That’s all I thought it was, and I figured I’d better check the noise out before Adriann got closer. I had an AG belt, so I switched it on and grabbed an outcropping. Pulled myself up. A couple more meters and my face was at the top. Weeds and red sand. And a foot.” She looked at Foxe’s boot. “Bare. Four toes, and three claws between them.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She took a deep breath now. “No one was supposed to be here—my family reserved a ten kilometer area. I stayed there. Started to call Adriann, tell her someone was up there. Then the foot came down on top of my hand. I felt a claw go right through it, into the dirt. Must have screamed. Adriann fell. I heard her—rocks slipping loose, swearing. I knew all she had to do was hit her AG belt and she wouldn’t splatter, but I wasn’t sure she’d remember that. And I was mad.” She rubbed her hand.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“So I grabbed the clawfoot with my other hand, and then I brought my feet up against the cliff face and pushed. Claw wasn’t very deep in the dirt. I’m strong—gymnastics mostly when I was younger. I had my other hand around the guy’s ankle and I kicked out away from the cliff as hard as I could. I only fell back a meter or two, but he was leaning over, off balance. Heavy bastard, bigger than two of me. But he fell. I was floating in mid-air, maybe five hundred meters up, and the AG belt wasn’t set for the extra weight, so I started dropping. Not fast, but . . . the claw was still in my hand. I was upside down. He was dangling underneath me, swinging his other foot up, trying to grab onto me. I had a wavehammer in my belt for digging into the cliff face. It self-activated when I grabbed it. He almost pulled it out of my hand while I was swinging it. Got his leg. His scream was really high, like an opera singer. His other leg—he clawed my face and I couldn’t see anything but I kept swinging. Hit something solid. I could hear Adriann yelling my name. Then the claw slipped away from my hand, and I lost the hammer. I saw it falling. Then I saw him falling too. He looked . . ..” She smiled. “Like was he trying to fly. He didn’t learn in time.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Who was he?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She shrugged. “Trying to kidnap my sister. Or me. My family had money. Always a problem. I got my first bodyguard right after that trip.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“First bodyguard? How many did you go through?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She blinked. For a moment he thought she hadn’t heard the question, which didn’t make sense. Then she sat down, as if the story had exhausted her. “One question. My turn.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Her answer told him more than the obvious. She could keep her focus under fire, and improvise when her options were limited—and reliving the experience hadn’t traumatized her.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But Valeria Lynd wanted him to see her as a coldblood. She thought he wanted that from her. She had good instincts. She could read beings and without excuses. He might not trust her, but he could trust that</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe waited for her question. He thought for a moment about his first kill. He’d been twelve. Carried a bomb into—</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Those burns.” She pointed at his neck. “There, and—all over.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You were voyeuring me?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“My ship. Answer.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Not the question he expected. Or wanted. But a deal was a deal, especially if they were going to work together—or pretend to trust each other.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Bekkas Tau: A Dumash assault cruiser had landed outside a small Bekkan town for repairs—and for a little recreational rape and slaughter. AW was fighting the Dumash on behalf of the Trellian Commonwealth, an AW member and a source of duranium ore. Foxe was aboard the stellar destroyer that had damaged the Dumash cruiser. Captain Hiller didn’t want to target the cruiser from orbit—a neutrino blast would destroy the town, and unlike the majority of MilForce officers Foxe had worked for, Hiller actually tried to limit collateral damage. At least when it was just as easy to send an expendable saboteur down to do the job.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Hiller sent Foxe down to blow the cruiser. Foxe dropped in a disposable insertion capsule, got inside the cruiser by crawling up a waste-evacuation chute, and planted the Foley charge near the ship’s engine core, but it detonated prematurely, just as Foxe was sliding back out the chute. The cruiser dissolved in a ball of plasma. So did forty-six percent of the skin on Foxe’s body.</div>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“When I didn’t contact the destroyer for pickup,” he told Valeria, his voice hard as a rock, “they put my name on the Dead List and left the system.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But he wasn’t dead. A group of Bekkan monks found his body in the smoking grass. They carried him back to their monastery, ignoring Foxe’s pleading, pain-wracked requests for death—“The bastards,” he told Valeria— and laid him in a bed of delgash leaves that numbed his body, and through the shadows of the distant pain he heard them chanting over him, day after day, until eventually he began murmuring the words along with them.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I was blind and I couldn’t move,” he told her. “All I could do was repeat the chants over and over in my mind. And it helped.” The monks began teaching him different chants. Some relaxed his body, allowing it to absorb the lotions they poured on his charred flesh; other ones quieted the screaming riot in his mind and let him rest as their medicines slowly took effect. Foxe believed in no gods or demons, no religion or destiny, but he wasn’t too stubborn or stupid to turn his back on any tool he could use. The monks’ meditations eased his pain. They took his anger and his fear and used them for strength. He didn’t tell Valeria about the struggle inside to confront the buried emotions that the Bekkan meditations unearthed from deep inside him: hatred of the occupation forces he’d grown up fighting, the soldiers who’d raped and killed his mother, even his mother for forcing him to hide and listen while she sacrificed herself for him. He had to get past his anger at the Dumash and AW MilForce and even the monks, but soon the meditation led him inevitably toward deeper sources of rage. And fear: Fear of mistakes that would endanger other people, fear of death, fear of living with his nightmares and memories until they drove him crazy.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He told Valeria none of that. Just that somehow, after a year recovering in the monastery, when he finally managed to contact AW for a pickup, he knew how to sleep with his senses fully alert, live through pain that would have paralyzed most humanoid beings, and accept fear without letting it control him. Fear of failure, fear of blame, fear of death.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“One journey, many paths, one destination,” he said. “That’s the meditation for greeting death.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Use it a lot?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Every day.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She nodded. He didn’t know what she’d learned from his answer, but it seemed to satisfy her. “Okay.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Something had happened between them. He felt himself relax, and saw her face lose a little tension. “So, are we done?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She looked him over as if she’d made up her mind before he’d begun to speak. “Maybe we can work together.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Good.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She glanced at the countdown. “Three hours, twelve minutes. I’m going to change. The controls won’t respond to you.” She walked to the cockpit door.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Yeah, maybe we can work together</u>, he thought. For now.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
FIFTEEN: Material</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel his fingers, his legs. He felt as if he was floating in space, in a black empty void. He wanted to scream but his lips wouldn’t open. He wondered if he was still actually breathing.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Am I dead</u>?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No. He could feel his chest moving, just barely. Breathing. He remembered a fist in his face, a kick to his stomach, and a sharp sting in the back of his neck. Maybe something broke. His spine . . .. Paralyzed?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
His eyelids lifted like a dark sheet rising from his face. Lights, too bright, stung his eyes. Shadows shifted above him. Med center? He felt a groan pour from his throat without hearing it. No, he wasn’t on the station anymore. He was far from home, far from his destination. Wherever he was, he wasn’t anywhere near safety.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Voices murmured in his ears, but they sounded like waves in the distance. He groaned again, and this time he heard himself, a low, weak rumbling that reminded him of the dying huffleboar he’d shot during a hunting party with his father.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Then, as if he’d broken some rule by groaning, his chest seemed to freeze up. Panic filled him. <u>I can’t breathe! Air</u> . . . Everything turned gray and cloudy and for a moment nothing mattered, nothing at all . . ..</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Rumav woke up. White light over his face burned his eyes. Where . . . No idea. His throat ached as if he’d been screaming. Water—he tried to sit up but his arms . . ..</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He remembered the paralysis. The fear. But this was different. He could feel his muscles, his skin. Then why couldn’t he sit up?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Something held his arms down. His legs. His head. He tried to push, but even though he could move again, he had little strength in his body. “Hhhh . . ..” Help? Was anyone near? Anyone who would help him?</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Quiet.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A hand on his forehead. Another on his arm. A third on his leg, checking the restraint. <u>Take it off!</u> he wanted to shout. <u>Let me go</u>! But he could only groan again.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Quiet . . ..”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He had no strength to speak, or even to hope anyone would listen. He remembered now, like a burst of lightning in a starless sky: the unexpected sting in his arm as he talked to the Udorian in Pilots Ward, followed by a numbness that spread through his body and into his brain like a warm soothing bath. Then walking—floating above the deck, his feet free of his body, drifting through the corridor walls. Then he was in the Branch. He tried to stop but only fell forward, and strong hands caught his shoulders and jerked him upright. Tried to speak but only mumbled, unable to form words or even coherent thoughts. Then a hatch like the jaws of a shark, wide and eager for food. Then—nothing.</div>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He forced his eyelids up, fighting the harsh light above him. The sight told him nothing about where he was or who had taken him prisoner. A white ceiling dotted with amber lights. Shadows swirled in the air; he breathed as quietly as he could, afraid of the voice that had ordered his silence. He tried to turn his head but the pain between his eyes was even more powerful than the strap around his skull.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A face appeared, round and black, with three eyes and one nostril slit. “Don’t move,” it told him. It spoke through an opening in its neck.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Wh-wh-where . . . .”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Quiet. Don’t damage your cells.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I—I . . ..” He coughed. His lips felt thick and awkward.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A tube sank into his mouth. “Drink,” the voice said, and Rumav sucked water with a metallic tang. In a moment he was coughing again, and the being yanked the tube out and pushed his head to one side until his throat was clear again.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You have to stay quiet.” The being laughed, a high-pitched burst. “Or we’ll put you to sleep again. It’s better if you’re conscious. We don’t want your muscles to lose blood flow. Or your brain.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I’m—I’m . . . ” Rumav Sil Aldoz, Heir to the Century Throne of the Republic of Riskannon. No, he couldn’t tell them. The Emperor—his father—would never forgive him. <u>He’ll never forgive me anyway</u>. But his mother . . . no. Wherever he was, it was safer to stay anonymous. A nobody. Not a source of ransom, an embarrassment to the Throne. “Hanbor,” he whispered. “I’m Hanbor.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You’re a specimen now. Number—” One of his eyes closed for a moment, accessing a neural link. “Number 9749.” Another laugh, short and ragged.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>I’m not a number!</u> He opened his mouth to shout it in the being’s face. Then he closed his eyes. For a moment he let himself relax and feel safe. They wouldn’t kill him. They wanted his cells. These were cloneslavers. <u>I’m a specimen</u>. They wouldn’t even inflict any pain on him, aside from the occasional jab of a probe or a collector. No damage to his tissues, no punishment that might injure an organ or trigger a release of hormones that would affect his profile. They’d keep him alive and healthy for as long as they needed him. When they were done with him he’d just go to sleep. Dark, deep sleep.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No. The thought reared and rose up in his brain like a dog in a fighting pit. They couldn’t—he had to get out. Somehow. He pulled against the restraints. They were soft, flexible, but anchored firmly in the crèche around him.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Go ahead and struggle,” a new voice said. “Won’t do you any harm. Or any good.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I’m . . . I’m . . . Hanbor—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You’re material.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Rumav pushed his eyes open. The being above him had a round face, two circular yellow eyes with a single nasal slit right between them, and a wide, lipless mouth.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You’re just a specimen,” the being said. “Like me. When they use you up, maybe they’ll give you a job like this one. I don’t know if that’s better or worse than the cycling chute, but it’s a change. Right now you belong to us.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Who are . . . you?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The mouth curved in something like a smile. “I used to be 1312. Now they call me Ben.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Ben.” Not a friend. He might seem sympathetic, but he belonged to them. But still . . . his sanity wouldn’t survive without some kind of contact. He remembered reading ancient reports about prisoners locked away for years beneath the CenturyGuard stockade—traitors, and innocents alike. When they were finally released, most of them couldn’t speak a coherent sentence, or even wipe themselves after finding the toilet. <u>That won’t be me</u>, he thought sternly. <u>I’m Rumav Sil Aldoz. The Century Heir. No matter what happens to me, I will maintain our dignity. No matter how long</u> . . .. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He looked at the being, trying to read behind his eyes. “I’m . . . 9749.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Ben nodded. “Now you’re learning.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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* * *</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JMePgYngZPA/UrcshtKdwjI/AAAAAAAAAHA/IFSIzOFN1WI/s1600/800px-Landscape_Carina_Nebula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JMePgYngZPA/UrcshtKdwjI/AAAAAAAAAHA/IFSIzOFN1WI/s320/800px-Landscape_Carina_Nebula.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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SIXTEEN: Leda Station</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The transition felt smooth, like a slide into a warm pool instead of an abrupt drop into an icy bath. Foxe decided he could definitely appreciate the advantages of traveling in an expensive yacht like <u>Gemstone</u>. Room to pace and work out, triple backup systems in case the NavBoard crashed, an eighteen-channel Q-comm setup, and a full shower instead of a cramped head. But he still missed the rented Cat.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He’d lost them before. The Llanos Cartel had destroyed one in an asteroid field in the Kander system, and he’d been forced to abandon another in Holarus Prime. ARI complained, but they always paid.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No point in regrets. Just a ship, after all. His Varrian resistance cell had abandoned safehouses and caves once a month or more. You used what you had and you kept moving. It was his law of survival. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Welcome to the Sorresana Nebula.” Valeria wore a sleek black shipsuit and long boots, and she’d planted some long blonde hair on her scalp. If she had any weapons on her they were slim and small—the short-sleeved shipsuit hid nothing.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The nebula stretched across the cockpit’s multiple viewscreens, a curtain of glowing gas in colors Foxe couldn’t give a name to. Sorresana was 12 light years across, a supernova remnant still cooling almost a million years after the self-destruction of the white dwarf at the center of the cloud. From the outside it would look like a ring of energy expanding into oblivion. On the interior it was a sea of ionized gas and plasma that rippled in Foxe’s eyes like sand dunes under a quiet breeze.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He glanced at the SurveyBoard readout. “You’ve got rad shields on high?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“They adjust automatically.” She looked at the readings. “I’ve got two high-rad exosuits if we need them, but I’d rather avoid a prolonged EVA.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Total agreement. Where are they?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She waved a finger over the SurveyBoard, and one of the screens magnified. “There.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The cube-shaped outpost was half a kilometer along each edge. The surface of the structure was scarred with improved vacseal patches and plasma burns. It spun in a lazy, erratic circle like a child’s toy rolling across a brightly textured carpet. Three docking rings extruded from one side of the hull, tethers attaching a half-dozen ships to the station. Foxe counted: Each ring had six tether ports. The cloneslavers could accommodate a lot of customers.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
On another side he saw a row of ships lined up, attached directly to ports in the hull. Supply transports, probably, delivering food, equipment—and beings for harvest. A handful of other ships floated nearby. “Any of those belong to Shrinn?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I told you—we’ve got a week. At least four or five days. Here.” She highlighted one craft, a bumpy oval saucer mounted directly on the station’s surface. “<u>Quili’s Fire</u> is right there.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“When did they transition?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Thirty minutes.” D-space travel could theoretically produce minor temporal paradoxes—ships re-entering the real universe before they’d technically left, but at celestial distances the discrepancies didn’t create causality problems for anyone except multiverse physicists.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“They’ll have Rumav aboard by now,” Foxe said. “This space toy can go into Stealth mode, right?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“They’ve got us on their nets already,” she said. “I’ve signaled them for docking—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Was she crazy? “No, transition out and then come back in with your blockers enabled—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We can’t dock and then shoot our way in. Finding one being inside those vaults in there while everyone is shooting at us? Could take days.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe thought of the Llanos Cartel nark facility on Optimix Four. “I’ve gotten in and out of worse. On my own.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“And that would fill me with confidence if I knew anything about you—aside from the fact that your ship got blown up.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“And your successful career is based on what? Hoping for good luck?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Right now it’s based on my ship, my rules. Simple enough for you? There’s the hatch.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He bit off his reply. No point in wasting more time bickering. “I hope you strategize better than you argue. So what are you going to tell them?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “We’re here to have a child, lover.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“A freak child?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We have very specific requirements for our baby. We want at least six fingers on each cute little hand—but no more than twelve. Reduced mental capacity. Hermaphrodite.” She winked at him. “A little something for both of us.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe had witnessed a lot of cloning perversions around the galaxy, but hearing it in Valeria’s words made his stomach boil with disgust. “Are you serious?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Oh yeah, I’m serious.” Valeria planted her feet on the deck. “And you’re nauseated just thinking about it. Hold onto that for a while. I can be very insistent.” She leaned back and stretched. “A bitch-goddess, you could say.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He smiled. “Can I say that to them?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Not in my hearing, lover.” She wiggled her fingers at his face. “Make them think you’re a little bit scared of me.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Oh, I’m scared of you. That’ll be no problem.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The CommBoard beeped. Valeria swung around to the panel.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Attention, ship.” Not an automated voice—a living being was tracking them. “This is your one warning. Get out of this nebula.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Hey, hey—don’t shoot us, okay?” She sounded frightened. Her face didn’t flicker, though. Still hard and determined. “This is <u>Gemstone</u>. My name is Val, and I’m here with my lover, Ernest.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Erick,” he snapped.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Whatever. We need your, uh, your services. We can pay! We can pay whatever you want.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A pause. “Where’d you hear of us?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She opened her mouth to reply, but Foxe tapped her arm. “Dammasch Cult,” he whispered. “DemandWeb Three.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“From the Dammasch Cult,” she repeated. “One of their DemandWebs. Three, I think.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We’re not on the DemandWebs. Firing in five seconds.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Of course you’re on DemandWebs,” she snapped without hesitation. “It’s what Dammasch is all about.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
One of her hands drifted toward the NavBoard controls. They could probably evade an initial attack and make a quick exit to D-space, but that would make the job harder.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“All right—transmit your ID codes and stand off until we confirm,” the voice said. “If you change your mind and leave, don’t bother coming back.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Transmitting.” She tapped a key and sighed.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Did you have an actual plan for getting in here?” Foxe demanded.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Your Dammasch thing was better.” She stared at him, curious. “So, are you thick with the Cult?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The Dammasch Cult was a group of humans dedicated to extreme pleasures: sex, pain, incest, and other activities. He looked away from her. “I’ve had to deal with them. Have you visited their Rings?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sometimes. Is this station is really on their DemandWebs?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He shrugged. “Probably. You can find pretty much anything there if your tastes are slimy enough. Postings get deleted all the time.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“All right,” said the voice from Leda. “We’re extending a tether. Attach and then wait for the signal to come in. No weapons.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Thank you!” She set her NavBoard to meet the tether. “All right, good on you,” she told Foxe. “We’re on our way in. Want to get our story straight?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
In the screen he saw a tether extrude from one of the rings, slow and heavy like an anaconda. “No time like the now.” </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
They pulled themselves through the weightless tether, a snaking tube of tissue-thin duralar, then into the central access shaft to an airlock. After fifteen minutes the airlock opened into a junction where two andys and a human male the size of a grizzly bear met them. The andys searched them and scanned the bags they carried. The human—“I’m Borr,” he grunted—stood back, one hand on the ion pistol at his hip, and smirked at Valeria, as if this was the best part of his job.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The andys found a sliverbeam from Foxe’s bag and a small pulser strapped to Valeria’s ankle. Borr confiscated the weapons with a smile. “Everyone tries.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“That sliverbeam cost me 200 i.c.,” Foxe protested. “I’d better get it back.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“My pulser was 300,” Valeria snapped. “So shut up.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe glared at her. But they’d planned for their weapons to be found and taken; it suggested they were stupid, and gave the cloneslavers a sense of security. Valeria still had her handcomp, clipped to her waist, and they left Foxe with a gameplayer in his bag after they checked it out and copied some of the games they didn’t have in their system.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Okay,” Borr said with a yawn. “Come on.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He led them down a low corridor, gray walls scarred with stains that might have been blood or other bodily fluids. The andys followed behind Val, boxing them in.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe glanced up and down the passageway as though fighting the desire to run back toward the tether. Fear was good camouflage, letting the enemy think you could be threatened and manipulated. But Foxe’s fear was real enough. Walking unarmed into an outpost full of cloneslavers reminded him that fear could overpower all his training and any Bekkan chant. The cloneslavers might not even kill him if everything went wrong. They could keep him alive, in a tank, for years—for harvest. No hope of freedom, or even death.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Like all the others they kept here.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The human halted before an open door. “There.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“What’s this?” Foxe asked.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Just go,” Valeria snapped.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“All right, I just want to know—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She grabbed his arm and shoved him through the door.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Hello,” Foxe said. “I’m—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I know who you are,” said the woman inside the room.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She sat behind a deskcomp, floating on an AG chair. A cascade of holodisplays glowed around her, then flickered as she closed them all at once and leaned forward to give them a skeptical look-over.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She looked human, or at least humanoid, but a second glance showed that her pale blue eyes were optical implants. Her black hair was tied back in a tight braid, and the cortical cables connecting her brain to the deskcomp looked like more braids trailing down her back. Her arms, sleeves rolled back, wore a series of bright comm bracelets with dark jeweled control studs. Some of the bracelets were implanted directly into her flesh. Her long fingers were a hybrid of flesh and metal.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Sssooo . . ..” She drew the word out as she scanned them with their artificial eyes. “Val and Erick. I’m Morine Andala. This is Leda.” She spread her hands in an insincere gesture of welcome. “Tell me why you’re here.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe started to speak but Valeria kicked his leg. She opened a pocket on her hip, next to where her handcomp hung from a belt, and tossed a datachip on Morine’s desk. “There’s twenty thousand shares of Rabix Corporation, blind transfer. We want a child.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Twenty thousand?” Foxe turned on her. “Are you sanity-challenged? We could go to—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“As a down payment that may be enough,” Morine cut in. “Depending on what you want.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Give her the data,” Valeria snapped.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe frowned, dug into a vest pocket, and set a second datachip next to the credit chip. “It’s all there.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Her fingers scooped up the datachip like a hawk snatching its prey. She inserted it into a slot and her desktop glowed. Foxe saw genetic codes and physical specifications flow down the screen. She tapped commands on a touchscreen beneath the edge of her desk.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No place to sit. Morine had the only chair. Maybe she expected her business with unexpected visitors to be brief.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She nodded to Valeria. “Your down payment will cover half of the process.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Half?” Foxe took a step forward, reaching out to snatch the credit chip. Then his arm froze and he couldn’t move his feet. An N-field surrounded the desk, paralyzing anyone who got too close.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“<u>Kitt</u>,” Valeria muttered in disgust. “Let him go.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Morine held the field a moment longer, gazing at Foxe with a cruel, feline glint in her eye. “Remember this.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The field pushed Foxe back. He staggered, glared at Valeria, and shook his head. “Let’s get out of here.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We’re staying.” She gripped his arm with tight fingers. “We agreed.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe opened his mouth to argue. She squeezed his arm harder.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<u>Damn. She was good at this.</u> “All right. Fine.” He pulled his arm free. “But I get to choose the components.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Morine stood up. Foxe saw a dartwand dangling from a leash at her hip. “Everyone wants to play with DNA,” she said. “Chromosones aren’t interlink blocks or origami sheets. You can’t mix them together like exotic cocktails. You’ll get choices of genetic components taken from our available material, based on the specific traits you’re interested in, and we’ll perform three physical modifications within Darkins-Xingli parameters. You’ll get five samples to choose from when accelerated gestation occurs. And we aren’t responsible for any product defects because you pick incompatible genetic traits.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“We agree,” Valeria said.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe sighed. “All right. Whatever she says.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Morine looked amused. “First look at this.” She touched a bracelet stud, and images of zygotes, embryos, and newborn infants appeared in the air. Most were humanoids, but none of them looked like conventional beings. Some had extra arms, or just one; some had three eyes, others none at all; some looked like a contorted tangle of limbs, while others were chimericals, a mixture of humanoid and animal DNA.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Morine was trying to shock them, scare them, so they’d have no excuse for backing out after she’d begun her work. The whole enterprise disgusted Foxe. He kept his face steady and waited with an impatient frown.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“This is a business.” Morine killed the holoimage. “There are no tours of the crèches, no access to our databanks, no watching our techs at work. The accelerated development process takes three days. Your fee includes a gestation unit for transporting the finalized embryo. Until delivery, you remain on Leda. No going back to your ship for anything you ‘forgot.’”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She leaned back in her chair. “You’ll follow our rules explicitly. Follow instructions from station personnel at all times. Assume that we’re monitoring everything you say and do all the time. Don’t make trouble. We are a long way from any authority. Remember that.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Fine,” Valeria said.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Let’s get on with it,” Foxe snapped.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
With a skeptical smile, Morine sat down again, pulled down the holoimages, and slipped the datachip into a deck. “Confirm payment now, please.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Valeria tapped a code into the reader. Then she crossed her arms, impatient. “Well?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Morine smiled. “I’ll begin processing your specs. Since you indicate you want to use some of your own genetic material, I’ve scheduled an exam for thirty minutes from now. Do you need one compartment while you’re here?” She looked at Valeria. “Or two?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Just one, I suppose.” She rubbed Foxe’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He nodded. “It better.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The compartment held a pair of narrow cots, a transparent table with two chairs, and a head with a refresher instead of a full shower. The gray walls were bare, and dented in one corner, as if a guard had hurled a prisoner against it over and over. It smelled of bugkiller. One amber lighttube ran across the ceiling. The door had no lock, internal or external.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Foxe sat on one of the cots, looking for spycams. “Figure they’re listening in?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“You never know with people like—I mean, out here, middle of a nebula, all the guards.” She shrugged, sat down, and unclipped the handcomp from her hip. “We’d better assume.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I don’t like that. What if we want to—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She slammed her hand on the table. “Oh gods and demons, shut up! Give me five minutes of quiet.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Fine.” He lay down on the cot.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She drew a stylus from a slot in the handcomp and tapped it three times on the screen, her lips clamped together. Then she pressed down on one end of the stick, holding her thumb for three seconds. Without looking up she said, “Better keep this short—they might notice the signal interruption. And if there’s vid surveillance they’ll see us talking. Any ideas?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He stared at the ceiling. A cascade of minuscule spycams could be watching them even if she’d blocked the audio signal. “We’ve got to hack into their databanks somehow.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Hackware here—” she rapped the handcomp with a knuckle. “That might do it.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He frowned at the risk. “How much more money can you throw around?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Client placed her funds at my disposal. You?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Special accounts. If I can get a Q-bank link. My ship got blown up, remember?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She drummed fingers on the table. “We can’t start by throwing cees at them. An argument. Make them think the deal’s going to fall through. Force a concession.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
It made sense. “You want nine fingers, I want six, we can’t agree—“</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Too trivial. Don’t we—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Ever had a boyfriend? Trivial is what real couples argue about. You tell them you can work it out, we argue a little longer, and in the end we compromise on seven fingers, as long as it’s fresh material. Nothing that’s been lying in a crèche for months.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Valeria nodded. “Might work. If you can be childish and irrational.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I’ll do my best.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She glanced at her handcomp. “Better quit.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Fine. I have to use the head anyway.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She clicked the stylus. He got up, stretched, and stepped inside the head. After washing his hands and purging the toilet. He returned and sat on the bed again. Valeria’s handcomp was back on her hip and her arms were tightly crossed. She didn’t look at him.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He lay down on the cot, crossed his arms over his face, and gave a long, frustrated sigh. Rumav was here, maybe only a few hundred meters from this compartment. They’d keep the kid healthy, at least. <u>It’s my health I’m worried about</u>, he thought. He glanced at Valeria. <u>And hers</u>.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Will it hurt?” he asked, playing the role of the anxious spouse. “This exam?”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “Not too much, I’d guess. They need to keep us happy.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“They can do anything they want to us here.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Stop whining. Think about the child.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Yeah.” He closed his eyes.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
In his life he’d killed people, suffered torture, almost burned to death, and seen his mother die. But the toughest part of the job was waiting. Facing a battery of pulser cannons was almost relaxing compared to the dread of anticipation.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He heard Valeria move across the floor. “You want something? Coffee, liquor—nice selection.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Some Centauri whiskey would feel good, but he needed to stay sharp. “You go ahead.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Liquid poured, and he heard a sigh from Valeria’s lips. “That’s good.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Come here.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She laughed. “Not now.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Oh, come on. All this talk about babies—”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Just yank yourself. If you don’t mind them watching.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Fine.” He rolled over. He hadn’t wanted her to agree. Just keeping up the cover. But the stab of disappointment from her bitter laugh surprised him. <u>You’re not a kid</u>, he told himself. <u>This is work</u>.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Then he felt her hand on his shoulder, rubbing his muscles. “Just relax.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“That helps.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She stopped. “Shut up.”</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
That was going to be difficult.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-63323575535960968422014-01-11T15:53:00.000-08:002014-01-11T15:53:52.421-08:00CHANGESDavid Bowie, Danielle Steele, and a whole lot of other folks seem to think that a title like "Changes" is the height of creativity. Okay, I love David Bowie, so I'll give him a pass. And my wife went through a Danielle Steele phase, and who am I to criticize someone who can hit the <i>NY Times</i> bestseller list whenever she wants—just like I want to do?<br />
<br />
Ahem. Anyway, changes. I recently realized that I can't have an infinite number of "Pages" over there on the right, where I've been placing chapters of <i>Prodigal Prince</i> every week or so (okay, I dropped the ball a little around Christmas and the new year, but I'm going to get back up to speed in 2014—promise).<br />
<br />
Apparently I can only have 20 Pages over there. But I can have a whole bunch of Posts. I'm trying to draw readers in, but that obviously won't work if they can only read the latest chapters without any context ("Who is this Foxe guy? Why are they stuck in a nebula? Will Valeria ever give Foxe a good hard punch in the gut?"). So I'll leave Chapter 1 in Pages, and put the rest of <i>PP</i> into Posts, and everyone will be happy and thrilled? Right? Right?<br />
<br />
Of course, this will take a little weekend time. I just cut-and-pasted the first ten chapters into a Post, and now I have to go out to get dinner from the take-out place on the corner. I'll rearrange the rest of the <i>Prodigal Prince</i> chapters later tonight or tomorrow, depending on the beer situation.<br />
<br />
By the way, my favorite David Bowie song is "Under Pressure."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psYQMY69gLo">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psYQMY69gLo</a><br />
<br />
I do not have a favorite Danielle Steele novel.John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-74753844406229909632014-01-11T15:19:00.000-08:002014-01-11T15:19:13.131-08:00Prodigal Prince, Ch. 1-10<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f48d1d; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
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<br /><br />ONE: Crystal Rendezvous<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Why did you kill me</u>? the little girl asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe knew he was asleep. Alone in the cockpit of his Cat, sliding through D-space toward Crystal Rendezvous, he was close enough to consciousness to try forcing the child away in his mind. Sometimes that worked. But now her round little face grew to fill the viewscreen as if she were trying to push back at him before he could fight her off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Why did you kill me?</u> she repeated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Hellcore,” Foxe whispered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Firstmark Hallick had been the target on that mission. Hallick had killed hundreds of her people in that war—adults and kids, soldiers and civilians. Foxe had been sent down to the planet to survey the situation, and he’d spotted one chance to plant a sidewinder bomb on Hallick’s vehicle, just before a cold dawn on a world whose name he couldn’t remember.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>And the bomb went off too soon. The kids were supposed to be out of the groundskim, leaving only Hallick and the driver. But something—a random signal? Software error? Foxe’s hurry? Something went wrong and the vehicle exploded early, shooting shards of armor and shreds of flesh into the pale sky.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Why did you kill me</u>? she repeated again, more insistent this time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The same question, every time. Little kids, old men, armed soldiers, helpless civilians. Foxe struggled to breathe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The little girl stared at him, waiting for an answer he could never give her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Foxe needed to wake up. His heart pounded inside his chest. His lungs ached for air. He felt every muscle in his body, every bone, every inch of skin, tense and ready to explode. He wondered what it would feel like to no longer feel anything at all . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Then his eyes popped open. Awake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The little girl was gone, replaced on the viewscreen by the luminous undulating strings of D-space, twisting like snakes in a pit in a wormhole that existed outside the real universe where distance didn’t have any measurable definition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Transition in two minutes,” the NavBoard comp announced.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe blinked at the D-space countdown clock. <u>Hellcore</u>. He’d slept almost four hours. He lurched from his seat and staggered to the head. Cupping his hands in the sink, he took a quick of lukewarm recycled water and washed his face, stretching his neck and shoulders.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The NavBoard spoke again. “Transition in thirty seconds.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<u>Okay.</u> <u>Time to go to work</u>. Foxe returned to the cockpit and strapped himself back in to his seat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The count reached zero. The screen went black. The deck shuddered beneath his boots, and for an endless instant Foxe endured the familiar sensation of being spun, shredded, and slammed back together—a timeless instant that seemed to last forever and end before it began, as the Cat slid out of its wormhole and popped back out into the real universe at the same moment it had left, hundreds of light years from its initial transition point.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe swallowed, wishing for another drink of water. “Transition complete,” the NavBoard stated. “Prime thrusters online. Establishing navigationsal link with Crystal Rendezvous Control AI.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The screen blinked back to life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Crystal Rendezvous: a chunk of snowy gray ice with ice vapor trailing behind it as it spun in the darkness. Half a century ago an armada of ships fleeing a war in the Kolarus system had hollowed out a comet and anchored it in orbit around a white dwarf, creating a refuge for anyone who wanted to escape the eyes on the Aligned Worlds. Renegades, rogues, and runaways had taken control of the deep space habitat since then, turning Crystal Rendezvous from a quiet hiding place to something far more illicit and enticing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Plasma trails from incoming and departing ships flared around the station’s docking spar. Foxe glanced away from the screen to check the auto-maneuvering readout, and the image clung to his eyes as if burned onto his retina. When he looked back, Crystal Rendezvous had grown to fill half the screen, looming in the darkness with a menace that made Foxe feel like a mouse sneaking toward a cave, hoping to snatch and few crumbs and scuttle away without waking the bear inside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>An AI voice burst through the CommBoard: “Approaching vessel with temporary designation code MG682 this is Crystal Rendezvous Approach Control please identify yourself and respond within thirty seconds. Repeat: Approaching vessel with temporary designation MG682—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Crystal Rendezvous Approach Control responding to code MG682,” Foxe cut in. “Designate MG682 as CAT XL743, homebase Oberix-2, and grant open-ended docking privileges.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Confirm conditional docking privileges pending clearance please peruse docking charge and station usage fee schedules and confirm with credit code repeat confirm conditional docking privileges . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The fees for docking and basic services like air and gravity had gone up since Foxe’s last visit. Everything else—medical attention, CrysNet access, and filing charges for any crimes investigated by the Crystal Blades—was extra, and expensive. But that was the price of coming to Crystal Rendezvous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He transmitted a credit code and waited for permission to dock. The station spun slowly in the viewscreen. Shuttles and ships from CATs to Dragon-class vessels rested in their slips, like birds asleep with their heads beneath a wing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Approach Control spoke again: “CAT XL743 please release your NavBoard to Crystal Rendezvous Access Protocols for docking in . . . four minutes. Entry location Branch 1.56.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe reluctantly transferred his navigational systems to Crystal Rendezvous. It was standard procedure, but he hated giving up control to anyone or anything.</div>
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Maglines pulled the Cat toward the docking spar. Foxe waited, clutching the arms of his pilot’s seat, until his feet felt the solid thud of connection with the slip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Safety seal established,” the NavBoard announced. “Systems link established. Hatch seal is secure. Lock is fully pressurized.”</div>
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<span> </span>He shut off contact with the station and tapped a SystemBoard command. “Enable security protocols and confirm.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Security protocols engaged,” the SystemBoard responded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>No one without the right access codes would be able to steal the ship. Depending on what they tried, and how good they were, the security program he’d installed would put any intruders to sleep. Or kill them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe swung around in his seat and slipped into a long black vest. He clipped his handcomp to his belt and slipped his wavedagger into a boot. He checked the Radley-120 pulser on his hip, charged it for a moment, and then let it slide back into its holster.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Projectile weapons that could punch through a bulkhead or puncture a hull were forbidden, but Crystal Rendezvous didn’t prohibit energy weapons on it decks—just corpses that weren’t paid for.</div>
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“System sleep,” he ordered the Cat. The cockpit lights dimmed. The ship would remain inactive until Foxe’s return, but it would be ready to power up for departure within five minutes.</div>
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<span> </span>He slung his pack over one shoulder and took one quick look back through the cockpit. Everything locked down. If he didn’t return . . .</div>
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<u>Well, that’s life</u>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe stepped into the Cat’s cramped airlock and secured the cockpit door behind him. He shifted the pack on his shoulder, pulled the outer hatch back and to the side, and stepped out into a short entry ramp, slamming the hatch tight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A few steps across the narrow ramp brought him to a security pad mounted next to the station access hatch. It took a retinal scan and gave him a numeric access code. He punched the code in and the hatch swung outward.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He emerged into a passageway. The curved white walls were familiar, along with the red arrows pointing the way to the station entry and the golden illumination of lighttubes above and below.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Also familiar: the sight of a humanoid staggering through the passageway, stopping to peer at every hatch as if he’d forgotten which section of the Branch he’d left his ship at. He shot Foxe a suspicious glance, then continued his search.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe confirmed that his hatch was secure and headed up the passageway. A clock above an archway marked STATION INGRESS gave the station time as 1737/2500. Two rows of desks, separated by a thin duraploy wall, faced him. At Egress Foxe saw two humans, one male and one female, arguing with an android about station fees. <u>Good luck</u>. <span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>At the Ingress desk he waited while the android behind it shifted to active mode. “Name,” it said in a typical atonal voice. “With species designation, please.”</div>
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“Erick Foxe, human, T-23.” He extended a hand. “Take any finger.”</div>
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<span> </span>The android jabbed a slim needle into his thumb. “Five standard seconds for clearance and authentication.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The android would run his data through the Kick List for expulsion orders, bounties, and outstanding fees from previous visits. Foxe thought through his past stays on Crystal Rendezvous. <u>Two Coraxians killed last time out . . . paid those fees . . . The Hydurian assassin two years ago, but they shouldn’t connect that to me</u>—</div>
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<span> </span>“I am required to welcome you to Crystal Rendezvous.” The andy handed Foxe a hexagon-shaped badge with a clip on one edge. “This must be visible at all times while you are on station. Please acknowledge this statement in any language. Failure to acknowledge within five standard seconds—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Accepted.” He took the badge and clipped it to his vest. He reached for the chain around his neck that held his ID chip. “Here’s my credit.” He slid the chip into a C-deck. Crystal Rendezvous was a NonAligned station, but they’d accept AW credits as greedily as any station in the network.</div>
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“Enjoy your stay at Crystal Rendezvous.” The andy’s eyes dimmed as it went back into sleep mode.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe resisted the impulse to reply with an obscene gesture.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The door at the other end of Ingress opened into a long passageway. Illumination came from the advertising screens, interactive and insistent, lining the walls as Foxe walked toward the station.</div>
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“<u>Win or lose—best gaming booths at Arkadi!”</u> exclaimed one panel. Another display suggested that everyone visit Uldira’s Bliss Pit for the most erotic experience in ten light years. A sonic caress stroked his body, teasing his crotch as he walked past holograms of dancing blue Tadori males. Then exotic, titillating aromas tickled his nostrils: <u>“Inhale the spices of The Cavern on Carmen Deck!</u>” A few steps down multicolored light flowed in fluid shapes around him, coating his body before fading away with a faint sizzle of heat on his skin. “<u>Come enjoy the soothing and stimulating pleasuregels and transfusions at the Ecstasy Court!”</u> He walked through holographic figures, male and female and hermaphroditic, frozen, nude, their eyes vacant as they held their poses and breathed in shallow whispers: “<u>StatueDance Carmen! The most tranquil dancers in three dimensions</u>!<u>Alexis Deck and Carmen Deck!</u>”<span> </span></div>
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Yeah, Crystal Rendezvous exploded the senses at first sight: nerve-numbing sex, high-risk gambling, and nark that would whipsaw the mind. But beyond its façade—and beneath it—was where its real merchandise was bought and sold: information.</div>
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Drilling a hermaphrodite in a tub of living gelatin meant visiting the Dammasch Rings scattered across the galaxy. Drugs that combined pleasure with agony, or made God real, sent most beings to the Llanos Cartel, whose dealers could be found anywhere. For restricted weapons, classified data, exotic genetic material, electronic and biological viruses, or to contact merc armies, assassins, and terrorists for hire, Crystal Rendezvous was the first and last choice of anyone who needed to do business they couldn’t transact anywhere else.</div>
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Destroy the place—that’s what some planetary governments argued, backed up by religious leaders and, of course, competitors trying to dethrone Crystal Rendezvous’s status as the hub of illicit information and services in the galaxy. It would never happen. Too many of those same worlds, leaders, and competitors needed it. The AW tolerated Crystal Rendezvous because they needed to know where the maggots of the galaxy did their business. And because they needed to do their own business in the shadows when they needed to.<span> </span></div>
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He emerged from the corridor into Arcade Center, the entry point to everything on Crystal Rendezvous: Throbbing music vibrated across the high ceiling overhead; violent curses roared from a circular door that glowed crimson and orange. On a balcony two female Meerans danced, their fur aroused and pink. He stepped aside for an impatient group of Thalldors and scanned the semicircular chamber, 150 meters across, feeling as if he’d stumbled underground into a cavern of luminous stalactites and swooping bats eager to nip at his scalp.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Some of it had changed, but nothing was different. The Octagon Star was still there, its garish green logo beaming as a half-naked hermaphroditic Armala chased after two humans pushing through its doors past two security androids. Sanctum had stayed in business as well; its black doors were shut tight but a blue light winked from either side to tempt passersby to investigate its mysteries. But Shalaki was gone, and so was the Tentacle Bar. Interstellar entrepreneurs fought viciously—with weapons, at times—for rights to a spot on Fiesta. Only the toughest survived long enough to break even. The rest vanished down a black hole of failed enterprises.</div>
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<span> </span><u>Welcome back</u>. Foxe would have felt safer skimming the event horizon of a black hole.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Infokiosks were scattered around the open area. He ignored a Khonian female in ceremonial chains and stabbed a warning glare at a roving humanoid male with unnaturally long fingers as he walked with quicksteps to the nearest kiosk. He inserted a credit chip to activate CrysDirectory.<span> </span>“Spark,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>In a nanosecond the screen displayed an address and offered directions and a map. Spark’s place was still there in Bemani, the central section, two decks toward the icy surface then forward. Spark always talked about trying to get a better address, closer to Arcade Center, on a higher deck, but nothing ever came of his talk. Spark was consistent, both as a strength and a fault—one reason Foxe had always been able to trust him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He headed down a corridor. Its ceiling was higher than the passage from the docking branch, the walls a little wider, but he still felt like a rat in a maze. Unlike most Aligned Stations, which represented vast resources designed to burnish the egos of their corporate investors, Crystal Rendezvous had no spacious gardens or panoramic domes to make visiting beings forget the aluminar walls and stabilizing forcefields that held the barrier between warm, safe atmosphere and cold, empty vacuum. The endless corridors here could feel like a slowly tightening noose even to beings with no sense of claustrophobia. Closed in, trapped, some species went mad in hours.</div>
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For Foxe the problem was simply practical: Getting off-station in a hurry would always be a problem. He knew the nodes and conduits well enough to hide from any pursuer from a short while, but every station he’d ever visited always felt like a trap, aching to spring on him at any nanosecond.<span> </span></div>
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<span> </span>Foxe walked quickly. Two quiet Ustalli flattened their boneless bodies against the bulkhead to allow him past. He took a tube down to the next level, oriented himself quickly, and found the place where it had always been, its doors open to the wide passageway. The single word SPARK floated in the air across the entrance. With a grin he walked inside, letting his eyes roam.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Sandpaintings along the walls shifted shape and color in restless waves. Stale coffee, smoldering spices, and ale smells permeated the air. An android stood in standby mode near the door to clear tables and, if necessary, throw drunks and troublemakers out into the passageway. Half the tables were empty; those others had beings in two and threes, drinking quietly, playing hologames, tossing dice, flirting.</div>
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Foxe looked for Spark, didn’t see him, and strode to the polished lucex bar, a meter and a half high and solid enough to repel a pulser rifle. He climbed up into a tall stool and waited until a short humanoid female finished speed-chilling a Purple Comet. She had to hop onto a crate labeled MAXCORP ANTARELLAN to set it on the bar for a hulking Rann-dishi. “Drink,” she told him. Or possibly her. Foxe couldn’t be sure from the angle. The bartender turned to Foxe with a shrug. “Drink?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Centauri whiskey. Where’s Spark?”</div>
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<span> </span>She kicked her crate across the floor and found a cube-shaped bottle. “Who’s asking?” She poured—but kept the clouded glass in her fist.</div>
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<span> </span>“I’m a friend. Foxe.”</div>
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<span> </span>With a cautious nod, she set the glass in front of him. “I’ve heard of you.”</div>
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<span> </span>“You work for Spark?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>They looked each other over. The woman had dark skin, narrow eyes, and muscular bare arms. A tight black vest, loose pants, and a sliverbeam in her belt. Silver hair pulled back tight into a knot on her scalp. “His wife. Dianar.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe sipped the whiskey, felt the burn in his throat. “He was sure no female of any species would ever put up with him longer than a day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Three years.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Congratulations to him. Condolences to you. Where is he?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Dead.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Hellcore. Spark? No—“What happened?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She zeroed her eyes on him. Her arms beneath the short-sleeved shirt were thin and sinewy, and scarred. “Typical morning. Fight between three humans. Mo—” She nodded at the andy—“he grabbed one, the other two kept beating on him while Mo tried to toss him out of the way, and Spark jumped over the bar to stop them. He kicked the big one in the kids, but the little guy had a knife. No high-energy tech, nothing special, just a long slice of sharp metal, and he put it into Spark’s throat.” She blinked, her eyes in the past. “Right before I shot him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The injustice of Spark’s fate made Foxe want to laugh—and destroy something, or someone. Spark had flown dozens of pickup runs that saved Foxe’s life when they’d served in AW MilForce, breaking almost as many rules as Foxe did. Anyone who could fly tight and fast with pulse cannons blasting around him didn’t deserve to die on the floor of a bar. Not after he’d saved every paycheck for it, talked about it until all his friends wanted to beat him into silence, dreamed about it every night as passionately as his friends ached for a woman, or a man, or a life without constant war.</div>
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<span> </span>But no one deserved to die. Foxe had learned that early. You just did, without expecting it, leaving the universe behind to forget you ever existed. <u>Hellcore.<o:p></o:p></u></div>
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<span> </span><span> </span>“Foxe.” She looked him over.<span> </span>“You’re the death-wish guy.” She filled a glass with spiced brandy and set it on the bar, protecting it with both arms. “Spark flew eleven extractions for you and almost got killed every damn time. Gods and demons.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Yeah.” <u>I’m the one who shouldn’t be here</u>. Foxe hopped off the stool and dug a hand after a credit tab. “So long. Thanks for the drink.”</div>
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<span> </span><span> </span>“Keep your ass on that stool.” Half the brandy went down her throat in an angry gulp. “He’d want you here. Stupid brainwaste. And he’d tell me to give you whatever you want. I can do that much for him. Sit!”</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe paused a moment, then clambered back onto the stool. He wanted to leave. Keep his memory of the living Spark, smiling, pouring drinks and insulting his customers, instead of replacing it with this woman in his bar. But he had work to do, and Spark had always respected that—even when he’d been cursing at Foxe for almost getting them both killed. “I need a place to stay. Probably just a few days. And a data connection for my handcomp.”</div>
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<span> </span>“You remember the storeroom?” She gestured toward a door behind the bar. “The cot’s still there. So’s the dataport. It’s all yours.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I paid him 50 cees a night—”</div>
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<span> </span>“Plagueshit you did. You stay quiet and don’t talk about Spark and that’s all I need. Another drink?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“First . . . ” He tapped the badge dangling from his collar. “I need an alternate. I may have to leave in a hurry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Her laugh had an acid bite. “That’s what Spark was there for. Yeah. I can get one. Take a few hours.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Thanks.” He lifted his pack. “I know the way.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The storeroom seemed smaller. Or maybe just emptier. The cot was still there, and a sink in the corner, but the smell of sweaty laundry was gone, along with the stacked cartons of illegal dar-brandy. But the dataport cable dangled from a gash in the wall where Spark had hacked into the network.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe dropped his pack onto a stain in the thin carpetpad and sank onto the cot. Hard as plastcrete. He unclipped his handcomp. Time to review the mission profile one more time.</div>
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<span> </span>He tapped a decryption code into the handcomp’s keypad. “Mission profile,” he said. “Rumav Sil Aldoz.”</div>
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<span> </span>A holoimage bloomed over the handcomp’s screen. A young humanoid with big chocolate-dark eyes and thick yellow hair in intricate braids. In the floating image Rumav wore a sheer tunic of silk brocade; his hands were clasped in front of his waist. Each hand had five long fingers and two opposable thumbs on opposite sides of the palm. Thick jeweled rings circled ten of the subject’s fourteen fingers.</div>
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<span> </span>A caption underlined the floating image:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Rumav Sil Aldoz</b>. Heir to the Century Throne of Riskannon. Born AW 664. Disappeared on AW 6:20:683; using using the name Hanbor Das Tenpil he traveled through the Riskannon Prism to <b>Vostros</b> Prism; undetr the same identity he exchanged AW Interstellar Credits through an independent broker and booked passage on a transport to <b>Crystal Rendezvous</b>.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A birth date of 664 on the Aligned Worlds record—a fiscal calendar whose main purpose was to facilitate trade agreements and commerce—made Rumav 19 years old. Still a kid by most humanoid standards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Disappearance six days ago. A long time, but not too long.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe waved a finger over the screen to continue:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Mission overview (1):</u> <b>Riskannon</b> is a class-3 world in the <b>Vynex</b> System. Its government is a type-4 parliamentary monarchy, with power shared by fourteen Families from the founding world’s three largest continents, now representing 137 Districts across three worlds in the Vynex System. The highest government post, Century-Emperor, rotates between these fourteen families, with each family assuming the Century Throne for 100 R-years [82 years AWFC]. <u>Note:</u> “Emperor” is largely a ceremonial title; Century-Emperors are subject to specific constitutional limits on their powers as detailed in the text of Charter of Families (see <u>appendix two</u>). Riskannon has been an AW member since AW 532.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Mission overview (2)</u>: Naden Mor Aldoz is in the 84<sup>th</sup> year of the Aldoz Family’s current stewardship of the Century Throne. Naden has implemented a program of progressive reform and expressed interest in re-establishing relations with <b>Taormika</b>, a former colony planet [P2974] which broke away from the Republic in AW 419 following a ten-year conflict (See appendix four). Under <b>Section 11</b> of the <b>AW</b> <b>Third Charter, </b>Naden has formally but confidentially requested assistance from Aligned Research and Intelligence in locating and returning Rumav to Riskannon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Mission objective:</u><b> </b>Your contract is to locate Rumav Sil Aldoz and return him to Riskannon alive and unharmed, in suitable condition to re-establish a stable chain of succession. Operating procedures are governed by your sole discretion and risk. Compensation and bonus will be based on our agreed rates according to the current contract. To review your current contract (<b>ER 428GIR</b>) with ARI—</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Foxe waved his hand to kill the file. He knew what he was worth to Aligned Research and Intelligence. His contract came up for review next year; he hoped he’d be able to negotiate an increase in his rates. In the meantime . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>This was better than lying around his cube on Oberix, reading and waiting for the comm to buzz while he popped nightmare suppressants or just drank enough Centauri whiskey to keep dead people out of his head when he passed out. A mission was a mission: a chance to erase the past and ignore the future, and make some money. Money that he probably wouldn’t live long enough to spend, but he didn’t know what else to do with the rest of his life—however long or short that turned out to be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Maybe this will be the one that gets me</u>, he thought. It would almost be a relief. The job sounded routine, but he’d learned the hard way: the seemingly complicated missions frequently turned out to be pretty simple, while the easy ones could turn intense in an instant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe stared for a moment at the blank screen, and caught his reflection in the dark surface. Then he turned the handcomp face down. He knew what he looked like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Eyes like gray clouds. Hair the color of dirt. Scars across his neck from the burns he’d suffered during the mission on Bekkas-tau.</div>
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An orphaned child of the Varrian system civil war, raised by local refugees who reluctantly trained a kid to become a resistance fighter in the insurgency against the occupying forces from Varrias-2. After years of bloody fighting, the Aligned Worlds finally decided to step in and impose a peace, and the only way for Foxe to escape the enemies he’d made as an insurgent was to enlisted in the Aligned Worlds Military Force, where he trained as a sniper and saboteur. So he’d served four years in AW MilForce before being court-martialed for assault on a superior officer.</div>
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Then he got recruited by ARI one year later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Security consultant, contract agent, troubleshooter, mercenary, whatever you wanted to call it. Working mostly for ARI—Aligned Research and Intelligence. AW’s intelligence and covert-action section.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>And—oh, yeah. Dreamer of dead people.</div>
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<br /></div>
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* * *</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
TWO: M’tajj</div>
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<br /></div>
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“I’m looking for this being.” Foxe passed the holocard to M’tajj.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He sat on a large round cushion, soft as null-field pool. Softer than the cot in Spark’s storeroom. Two of his dead had visited him in the night: a soldier from Antecore, and the Varrian woman who’d tried to sell him out to the occupation forces. The same questions. The same accusing eyes. The same relief when he woke up to start working.</div>
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<span> </span>The parlor smelled like jasmine tea. A tapestry of vines, woven together and still alive, covered one wall, quivering as the larva in its silky strands sucked moisture from the air. It filled the suite with a pale violet glow that matched the wine-red shade of the thick illi-grass rug beneath his boots.</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj held the holocard in the bucket-sized paw of his larger hand, focusing two of his pearl eyes at Rumav. He used one of his small secondary hands to roll the card’s trackball with a gentle, snakelike finger, turning Rumav around, viewing him from above, from floor level, from the back, from the side. “Humanoid races are so . . . difficult.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Yeah, we all look alike.” It was almost amusing—some planets fought wars because half the population had six fingers and the other half had five, but D’tarrians like M’tajj could barely distinguish humans from hairless, gray-skinned Narixians or Rann-dishii with their twitching eyestalks sprouting from the top of their skulls.<span> </span>“But you can find him.”</div>
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<span> </span>“I will find him.” M’tajj stated. “Twenty-five hours or less time. The price is ten thousand.”</div>
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<span> </span>ARI would pay the bill, of course, but he didn’t want to insult M’tajj by agreeing too readily—make him think he could get more cees out of the deal later. “No. Five thousand cees.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Leave.” He flung the holocard at Foxe’s face. “Mother of worms.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Dirt mother. Seven thousand cees.”</div>
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<span> </span>“You will lick my small hand. Ten thousand!”</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe grinned. “I would chew your weak fingers and spit the eggs from them.” The exchange of insults was actually a form of respect among D’tarrians—recognition that a being had the strength to withstand abuse. “But I will pay eight thousand to avoid the taste of your slimy blood.” He held out his c-chip.</div>
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<span> </span>“Mother of worms!” M’tajj snatched the chip with a small hand and jammed it into his credit reader. “Nine thousand.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Your eggs are diseased. Your fathers spit into the circle. But—okay. Nine is a good number.” Foxe leaned forward and tapped his code into the reader. “Are we done?”</div>
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“I will message you.” M’tajj reached for a bowl filled with squirming white worms with his big hand. He shoveled the worms into his mouth. “Leave now and let me work.”</div>
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Foxe stood, his legs aching. A D’Tarrian female emerged from the next chamber to nudge him insistently toward the door. “Master is finished,” she hissed in his ear. “Leave him to his work.”</div>
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M’tajj lived in an apartment on 2-Alexis, closer to Arcade Center than Spark’s place and one level higher toward the station core. From his suite he could tap into the station’s ubiquitous security cams despite all the sophisticated anti-hackware the station used. Foxe suspected bribery and a co-operative arrangement with Crystal Security, which worried him, but he didn’t have many options.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe had spent most of the previous night checking the hostels, pleasure pits, and other likely destinations where a visitor like Rumav would mix in without attracting attention. A search program he’d set running through the connection in Spark’s storeroom was sifting the public infonets for any imprint of a being matching the Riskanon prince’s description. He might catch something lucky, but he couldn’t count on his own efforts in a station this size. M’tajj had a reputation for results—and high fees.</div>
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Foxe had already tracked down two passengers on the transport that had brought Rumav here to the station. The Muranni had denied recognizing Rumav at all; he’d been too busy calculating profit margins and checking on his cargo, he insisted to Foxe. The Ustalli recognized Rumav but immediately declared his innocence of anything that might have happened to him: “I didn’t do anything to him! He left the ship and I haven’t seen him! Is he dead? Detained? In debt? I do not know him!”</div>
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M’Tajj might locate Rumav through the station network, but Foxe couldn’t lounge around waiting for possible results. He had one more name to check out: a Khonian female who went by Andreal. Her suite was also along the 2-Alexis section, just a few doors down the corridor from M’Tajj.</div>
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He pressed the commpad on Andreal’s door. A voice, low and lazy: “Yesss?”</div>
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<span> </span>“I need to talk to you.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Do you want to fornicate? What human class are you? I can accommodate—”</div>
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<span> </span>“Not sex. Information.”</div>
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<span> </span>The door opened a moment later. The Khonian, taller than Foxe, wore a translucent kimono that fluttered loosely around her body. Stripes lashed her copper-colored flesh. “Who are you?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Foxe. You’re Andreal Lar-3. You were on TA-153 from Vostros Platform.”</div>
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<span> </span>“This is fascinating.” She cocked her head. Long, silvery hair dangled over her shoulders. “Tell me my deepest, darkest secrets.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Actually I’m hoping you can tell me about Hanbor Das Tenpil. He was aboard the transport with you. I need to find him. His parents.”</div>
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<span> </span>She smirked. “How touching their concern.” Then she stepped back. “Come inside.”</div>
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<span> </span>Smaller than M’Tajj’s suite, the room looked like an explosion at a fabric replicator. Colorful clothing lay across the double-sized bed, the two chairs, the table pulled out from the wall, and the computer on its perch next to the bed. Enough to stock an entire Varrian refugee camp. Foxe took a position in the center of the room where he could keep his eyes on the hallway door and the entrance to the refresher chamber, with Andreal in the middle.</div>
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<span> </span>She picked up a silky blue shirt from the bed. “You like this one?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Tell me about Hanbor.”</div>
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<span> </span>“A child. Too serious. Cute, but worried. He didn’t want to talk or . . .” She stroked a strand of ebony hair from her slim shoulder. “ . . . Anything.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Worried about what?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Saying too much. You could hear him thinking— ‘Was that right? Did I make a mistake?’ Beings lie to me all the time. Part of the enjoyment for them.”</div>
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<span> </span>“What lies did he tell you?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Very few. What he told me . . ..” She smiled. “He didn’t bring anything to sell, and he wasn’t interested in anything to buy. He’d never been here before but he didn’t ask anyone about where to go, who to see. I don’t think he wanted to stay very long. He kept his bag next to him in the passenger lounge, carried it to the sanitor. No cargo. He was alone, and frightened. He did ask—” She stopped, her eyes glistening.</div>
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<span> </span>“What?”</div>
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<span> </span>“You want to buy some spices? I’ve got one that will attract any human female, another one for males, and many that will send them away when you get bored. Or—”</div>
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<span> </span>“Do you have one that will get people to stop wasting time?”</div>
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<span> </span>She sighed. “He asked about pilots. Where he could find one. He pretended to be looking for a friend, but he didn’t know enough to fake it.”</div>
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<span> </span>“What did you send him?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Adras—he was our pilot—told him to go to first level, down near the Branch. Pilot’s Ward.” She shook her head. “That’s all. He should have asked more questions—who to trust, what offices to stay away from, which trade halls were reputable. None of that. I hope he’s all right.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Now who’s lying?”</div>
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<span> </span>Her laugh was harsh, a warning. “You got what you came for—like everyone who visits me. Unless you want . . .” She pulled on the strap around her waist, letting the kimono fall open again.</div>
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<span> </span>“If I had time.” He let his eyes wander up and down her body. Whatever enhancements she’d had performed were seamless.</div>
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<span> </span>She tied the kimono again, smoothing the silk around her slender hips. “That’s the first thing you said that I believe.”</div>
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<span> </span>“I’m on the job.”</div>
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<span> </span>“So am I. Get out now.”</div>
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<span> </span>Pilot’s Ward. Safe enough if you knew what to ask and where to go for an honest discussion. Dangerous for a kid who’d probably never said more to a D-space pilot than “When do we get there?” But it was a lead. He left the Khonian to her business.</div>
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<span> </span>In the passageway a human female walked toward him from the direction of the M’tajj suite. Short red hair flared around her head like a shield. She wore a sleeveless maroon shipsuit that fastened at her shoulder, and an ion pistol strapped to her leg. Their eyes met for an instant; hers were sharp and blue like the edge of a knife. Foxe nodded. She ignored him and walked on as he passed.</div>
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<span> </span>He looked at M’tajj’s door. Did she come from there? No. Well, maybe . . . He walked to the door and tapped the commpad.</div>
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<span> </span>The D’tarrian female glared at him on screen, arms cocked in a protective stance. “He hasn’t called you.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Was my friend here?” Foxe asked. “Human female, red hair?”</div>
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<span> </span>The screen went black without an answer.</div>
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THREE: Lonan-en</div>
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“Spark is dead,” said Lonan-en. The Narixian tossed two twelve-sided dice on the gaming table between them. Seventeen.</div>
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<span> </span>“Spark is dead.” Foxe scooped up the dice and flung them. Twenty-two. A bad throw, but losing could be as useful to him right now as winning. “His bar’s still in business.”</div>
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<span> </span>“<u>Pagh </u>on his bar! He wasn’t meant to spend his years spilling swill for scum merchants. Spark was a pilot! Like me!” Lonan-en hurled the dice.</div>
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Eleven. The Narixian had won the round.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe dropped a cee-tab worth 50 credits on the table. “He seemed happy.”</div>
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<span> </span>“A fertile mate can twist anyone’s path.” He picked up the dice. “Again?”</div>
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Most Narixians gambled compulsively. Evolutionary biologists speculated it had something to do with the sweeping waves of random volcanic eruptions across their home planet hundreds of thousands of years ago that made every decision a bet against bad odds. Some religious cults required acolytes to play dice endlessly. Others limited the games to just days. Or weeks.</div>
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Foxe had met Lonan-en during a previous visit to Crystal Rendezvous. They weren’t friends, or enemies, but they had Spark in common. In a place like Crystal Rendezvous, that was enough for a temporary alliance.</div>
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They sat across from each other at a gaming table in the Astari Pilots’ Guild. Foxe dug the holocard from his vest. “Look at something for me.”</div>
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Lonan-en considered the image of Rumav, his multi-celled eyes sparkling. “Who is this?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Hanbor Das Septil. He showed up here a few days ago. Family wants me to find him. He might be looking for a pilot.”</div>
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<span> </span><span> </span>The Narixian swiveled his head around open area. Most of the gaming tables around them were empty, but near the doors of the Astari Guild a handful of beings waited to be called in for consultation.</div>
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Lonan-en dropped the card. “I’ve never seen him. But one can find pilots anywhere.”</div>
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<span> </span>“The Guild is the place to start for someone who doesn’t know the way around.”</div>
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Foxe picked up the dice. “I want you to ask the pilots if they’ve seen him.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Because I’m a pilot myself? They can lie to me as easily as anyone.”</div>
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<span> </span>“They’ll talk to you because they know you.” He rolled the two dice in his hand. “Let’s bet.”<span> </span></div>
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<span> </span>Lonan-en nodded. “Throw.”</div>
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Foxe tossed the dice. Sixteen.</div>
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Lonan-en clutched the dice between skinny fingers. “Yesss . . .” he hissed.</div>
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<span> </span>The dice rolled across the table. Eleven.<span> </span></div>
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Foxe lifted the dice. Lonan-en was honest. And Foxe had beaten the odds before. He tossed the dice.</div>
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<span> </span>But not today. Nineteen. “Yes!” The Narixian slapped the edge of the table.</div>
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<span> </span>He dropped another tab on the table. “The dice never lie.” It was a Narixian proverb. Shoving the chair back—</div>
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<span> </span>Lonan-en’s arm reached out to hold his wrist. “Let’s bet. On Hanbor! If I find him, two hundred cees.”</div>
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<span> </span>“And if you don’t?”</div>
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<span> </span>Narixians didn’t smile, exactly, but Lonan-en’s eyes sparkled. “Then we can bet on something else.”</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe slid the holocard across the table. “Good luck.”</div>
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“There’s no luck. Just time.” He stood on spindly legs. “A clan proverb. My regards to Dianar. Fertile.” He shivered.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe watched him stride away, heading for Astari Guild. The beings outside looked resentful as he stepped through the door, and shot suspicious eyes at Foxe.</div>
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<span> </span>He ignored them, walking away. Lonan-en was right—Rumav could find a pilot anywhere on the station. And if he wanted to avoid pursuit, the Ward wasn’t necessarily the safest place to look. Legitimate pilots and crews would insist on ID, even if they didn’t examine its authenticity very closely. But Rumav would start here. Maybe Lonan-en would get lucky.</div>
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<span> </span>But how much time did they have? Rumav could be gone already, on his way to any planet in the Aligned Worlds or outside of it, or to a station off the charts, or—anywhere. The psych profile from ARI gave Foxe a few hints about his personality: Rumav was serious but uncertain, awkward in the kind of formal situations a prince had to participate in. A good student—his tutors rated his intelligence highly. No long-term girlfriends, just a few brief liaisons with women more interested in forging a political connection than a passionate one. He treated his family’s attendants with kindness and respect, and didn’t push himself into political matters. Princes in other generations had already built a power base by Rumav’s age; he seemed intent on studying history, along with philosophy and mathematics as secondary subjects.</div>
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Nothing in the data Foxe had seen suggested he’d feel at home wandering a station like Crystal Rendezvous. Foxe had walked past two fights in the corridors on his way to Pilots’ Ward. He’d watched two predatory Krivon prostitutes try to seduce a young pilot in Spark’s place last night before Dianar had thrown them out. Rumav might be lucky enough to survive a few days on his own here. Or he might already be dead.</div>
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<span> </span>But if he was looking for a pilot, and got nowhere here in the Ward, he could make his way to other places where pilots didn’t ask as many questions. Or answer them.</div>
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FOUR: Tijo</div>
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The corridors of 2-Carmen were molded from same transaluminum materials as the rest of the station, but the section had its own distinct flavor. Odors of spice and flesh drifted through the circulating air. Knots of beings lounged in the passageways, talking, arguing, playing games. And children. <u>What idiot would bring kids to a station like Crystal Rendezvous?</u> Kids ran up and down in every direction, a mixture of races and genders and skins and limbs, playing and fighting and ignoring the adults like children in any school or playground in the galaxy.</div>
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<span> </span>He felt ignored but not invisible as he walked; he knew every eye would flicker across him, every nose and tongue would analyze his scent, sensitive membranes in ears and foreheads and chests would listen to his footsteps, breathing, and heartbeat. He was a stranger on a station of strangers. He’d have to earn whatever he claimed.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe dodged a duo of post-larval Sprinj and looked for claws and Life-charms.</div>
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<span> </span>In casino on 3-Alexis for everything from checkers to particle-pistol roulette, Foxe had met an Utan who whose life-partner had seen Rumav twenty-three hours before. Foxe couldn’t question the partner directly, because the Utan had just killed him for cheating at Tridice. But the partner had sent Rumav to his family of pilots on 2-Carmen. Foxe would recognize them from the ceremonial Life-charms they wore around their necks.</div>
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<span> </span>He spotted one female humanoid wearing a Life-charm on a chain around her hips, but she wasn’t an Utan. He avoided her flirtacious eyes. Further down the passageway, though, he spotted two Life-charms. One being was elderly, with a gray mane of hair receding from his forehead, and he wore a long dark jacket with an intricate snakelike design on the loose sleeves. Six or seven Life-charms dangling around his neck. A younger Utan in a sand-colored tunic tapped his claws against the wall in a lazy rhythm.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe approached them with slow footsteps, his hands in the open. “Excuse me.”</div>
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<span> </span>“What is?” the young one asked. His arms were long with wiry muscles. He had a knife strapped to one leg and a pulser on the other.</div>
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<span> </span>Again the holocard. “I was told this being came down here looking for a pilot.”</div>
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<span> </span>The old one leaned forward; his young companion watched him protectively. “No. Go.”</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe looked at the younger one. “How about you?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Muja say go.” The tapping of his claws on the bulkhead grew louder, faster.</div>
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<span> </span>The language packet in Foxe’s brain could translate every tongue known to the AW, but Foxe couldn’t memorize the body language of over a hundred different races. Their instant dismissal spiked his suspicion, though. Everyone else had taken a second or third look at Rumav before turning him away. Crystal Rendezvous made visitors skeptical and defensive, but also greedy—or desperate. Few beings here would turn away a chance to coax a reward or bribe out of someone asking questions.</div>
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<span> </span>“Okay, there might be some reward money involved—”</div>
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<span> </span>“Go!” Muja ordered.</div>
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<span> </span>The younger male stopped his song and spread his claws, but his eyes were on Muja, not Foxe, as if waiting for a command.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe shrugged. He could come back and find the young one later. “Thanks any—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Tijo, teach him,” the elder snapped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The kid sprang forward, but in his instant obedience he wasn’t ready for a real fight. Foxe ducked his slashing claws and kicked at a rear-flexing leg, and Tijo tripped, a growl in his throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The old one roared and lunged faster than Foxe thought possible, claws extended. Foxe threw himself backward and down, hitting the floor and rolling, and swung a kick that caught Muja in the ribs. The old one grunted, but then leaped at him like a Kairean wingcat. Foxe blocked his arm and jabbed a fist at his chest, surprised at the ferocity of the elderly being’s attack. He didn’t want to kill Muja but he wasn’t sure the old guy would give him an option.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He hit Muja again, ignoring shouts around him, and Muja staggered a step back, breathing in harsh gasps. Foxe faked a reach for the pulser on his hip and twisted as Muja swung claws at his shoulder. Spinning away, Foxe grabbed Muja’s arm and slammed him against the bulkhead. Then he dropped, feeling the hiss of Tijo’s claws over his head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He thrust himself backward, hitting Tijo in the stomach with his shoulder. They crashed to the deck. Foxe stabbed his fingers at Tijo’s leg, hoping to hit a nerve cluster. Tijo yelped and kicked, and his knee hit Foxe’s face. A cloud of red pain blurred his eyes but he jabbed again, harder. Tijo howled and pounded his fists at Foxe’s back. A claw zipped across the back of his neck and he felt blood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The pain and the blood jolted him like a slap of cold water across the face.<span> </span>Foxe rolled away from Tijo’s legs, his face skidding against the deck, and scrambled to his feet again. His vision was still foggy, but he let the throbbing in his face and neck focus his senses. He felt the rush of air as Tijo charged at him again. He lowered his arms and then snapped then outward, forcing the clawed hands wide, and he reached in and grabbed for the young being’s neck. He didn’t want to kill Tijo, but maybe he could cut off his air long enough to—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Tijo leaned in, his breath hot against Foxe’s forehead. “Leave Muja and go,” he whispered. “Will talk. Will talk! But go, go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe shoved Tijo’s chest and pushed him away. Tijo collided with Muja, who grasped his shoulder and held him upright, and Foxe backed away, hands high.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m going!” he shouted, not having to pretend he felt afraid. “Enough! You win! I’m going!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Go!” Muja roared. “Like a coward, go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe had never minded being thought a coward. Catching his breath, he glanced at the faces of the crowd around him. Some wore fear, others were frustrated that the fight was ending without serious bloodshed. But they parted as he walked backward, his eyes on Tijo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Just another day on Crystal Rendezvous</u>, he thought again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tijo found him an hour later. Foxe sat on a narrow, low bench in a tube center, drinking cold water from a flask. He watched the twin tubes disgorge and accept passengers, some rising “up” toward the station axis, others descending “down” toward the inner hull. He pretended that Rumav might emerge through one of the doors, and thought about what he’d tell him. But no lost prince appeared, just beings in twos and threes or more, or fewer: security guards carrying massive pulsers on their shoulders, Tanda dealers barely dressed for their casino shift, crew from various ships trying to find their direction. No Tumav.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He took some paincaps to soften the throbbing in his face but he knew the bruise would grow into a purple blotch until he could get a patch to repair the internal bleeding. He knew a Bekkan chant that was supposed to relieve pain, but it would take him inside himself, and he didn’t want the distraction. Rumav still might walk by, and in any case he’d stayed alive a long time by never assuming any location was completely safe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Tijo popped through the up-tube doors, saw him, and sat down at his side, his chest rising and falling as if he were still out of breath from their struggle. “Fight hard, you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“You too.” Tijo’s moves had been clumsy, but enthusiastic. And he had some power in his muscles. Foxe could have killed him right away, but pointing that out now might ruin his chance at getting information.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Not want to fight. But Muja, my mother’s uncle. Must follow his say.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He nodded. “Sometimes you have to, like it or not.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Is yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe pulled out the holocard in a motion that felt too familiar to his muscles. “So?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Yes. We see. Want a pilot.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Did he find one?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Not us. Has no money. Robbed, says. Three beings hit him, take all his cees. Will pay us after he get where he want, says. But no pilot believe that. Not us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Where did he want to go?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Tijo hesitated, as if unsure of his memory. “It was . . . Taormika.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The breakaway colony. Riskannon had joined AW, but not Taormika. They didn’t have an AW Prism in orbit above their skies. To go there Rumav needed to get himself away from Riskannon, someplace where he could find direct transport without being recognized, without having to explain himself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Maybe not simple adolescent rebellion. Following a moshi-band from system to system, joining a religious cult like Vaticlave or the Promise, pursuing a girlfriend or boyfriend—that’s what Foxe had expected. Even if Rumav didn’t want anything more than to annoy his parents by flirting with their oldest enemies, the mission had just gotten a lot more politically complicated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Where did Muja send him?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Registry Office. Sign on to work ship, maybe one take to Taormika. Or close.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Close” in interstellar terms meant nothing. Rumav couldn’t walk the last few light years. He had to find a ship going straight to Taormika, or hope to strike a deal with a captain willing to make an unscheduled detour. And that put him at the mercy of a crew who didn’t care who he was or where he wanted to go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Maybe no captain had taken him on. Yet. He had to move. But . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Why did Muja tell you to teach me a lesson?” Foxe asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Muja is angered by other one, before. He comes with same questions, but no respect. You come with—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe’s spine stiffened. “What other one?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Shrinn his name. Look like boy you want.” He wiggled his fingers. “More of these than me or you. And—” He tapped his right eye. “Scar. Like a hook. Ask about boy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“When? The boy, and the other one?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Boy, last night. Man, this morning.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“All right.” He opened a pocket in his vest. “Let me—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“No. No money.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Then why? What are you doing here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Tijo stood. “We fight, you and me. Good fight. Maybe you help boy. Boy need help. Boy stupid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Stupid,” Foxe agreed. “Thank you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Tijo walked to the down-tube without looking back at Foxe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Foxe tapped M’Tajj’s callcode into the comsol on his arm. Registry was one level up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>M’tajj Randahosko is elsewhere</u>, a female D’Tarrian voice said.<u> Please leave your message</u>. A chirp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“The target may have gone down to the Registry Office yesterday,” Foxe said. “Check there. Look for anyone he talked to. Please get back to me as soon as possible.” He closed the line, then called Lonan-en.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Ah, Foxe.” Lonan-en’s voice sounded calm as ever. “So quick.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Anything?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Your friend made contact with a pilot two days ago, but never returned for the meeting. Others remember seeing him—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“He was robbed. I had someone just tell me they sent him to Registry, maybe sign on as crew. Do you know anybody up there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“No, I . . . wait, yes. Lila Frayne is a matchmaker there. She may help—or maybe not. She tried to strangle me a month ago.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Well . . .” Foxe didn’t know the Narixian that well. Maybe he deserved it. “All right. Thanks.” The tube door was sliding open.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Wait,” said Lonan-en. Foxe stepped aside as a trio of exhausted maintenance techs in grimy coveralls wandered out. “Another being was asking about your friend. Not me, but I heard from an associate—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“A humanoid male, right? Shrinn? What did—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“A female. Human, or close enough to make no difference. Red hair. Yesterday.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe stayed in the passageway and let the lift doors close. “A woman?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“My associate found her highly arousing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He frowned, thinking of the woman in a sleeveless shipsuit outside M’tajj’s suite/ “Red hair? Dressed how?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I didn’t get a fashion report. But yes, red hair. And he did speak repetitively about her shoulders.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Working with Shrinn—whoever he was? Or another player in the game? “Thanks.” He closed the link.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Okay. He could handle this. At least on Crystal Rendezvous he could eliminate the competition without much official interference if they ran across each other. Just one more variable to keep track of. Yeah, he could deal with them if he had to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Maybe they’d stay clear of him. Maybe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
FIVE: Shrinn</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shrinn leaned against the bulkhead, waiting for the three Murrani to walk past him. Their bony shoulders pressed close to each other, and they laughed in hissing whispered like lovers, or smugglers. The female in the center smiled at him as one of the males tugged playfully at her skimpy vest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Shrinn kept his eyes toward the deck, keeping track of their movements without looking directly at them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
What were they doing here? Lanesh had chosen the maintenance node down on 3-Carmen because these passageways were rarely traveled. But maybe that was why these three were walking the decks. If he killed these Murrani, all three, would anyone file with the Crystal Blades and pay the fees to investigate their disappearance? This station was a playground for criminals, anarchists, the sludge of the galaxy. He’d be doing civilization a service.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The security cam feed from this section of the corridor would show nothing, thanks to Lanesh’s hackware. But he was committed to the mission. His orders. That came first, always.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The three Murrani turned a corner. The female curled her neck for one last look at him, then disappeared.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He turned to the access panel in the bulkhead behind him and punched an entry code into the control pad. The readout turned green, and he slid the panel aside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Lanesh was pointing her Kobar ion pistol at him, her hand firm on the handle. She had pale yellow hair and steady hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“At ease, Lanesh.” He pulled the panel closed. A small glowbulb illuminated the cramped maintenance node. Cables wrapped in bunches hung across the walls, linked to junction boxes, and the atmosphere circulator couldn’t quite fight the odor of sweat mixed with chemical lubricants pulsing through bare plasteen pipes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She holstered her weapon. He saw the hint of a smile in her narrow eyes, and the hope of one in return.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Not now</u>. “Report,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She hid whatever disappointment she may have felt. “Declannes squirted a message over.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Declannes. Alone on their ship, monitoring communications. Waiting. “Let’s see it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
She swung around in her pull-out chair. Lanesh’s fieldcomp was hooked into the station’s surveillance scanners. The hardscreen above displayed multiple images from passageways and public spaces throughout the station, as well as the private suites she’d been able to hack into. Lanesh lowered those feeds to the bottom of her screen with a flick of a finger and signaled a new command. “Here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
One short step brought him to Lanesh’s shoulder. The systems maintenance room they’d taken over was small, and he could feel every breath she took. He could imagine station personnel sneaking inside for a quick rendezvous. But he couldn’t afford to let his thoughts drift in that direction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Darel Tur Calibron. Shrinn had last seen him only six days ago, but the Third Minister for Defense on Riskannon seemed to have aged years in a short time. His long thin braids had more gray in them, and his flat face looked as if it might crack like an antique plate at any moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Darel rubbed his long jagged nose. He was afraid. Shrinn had seen it from the beginning. The Minister’s determination was strong, but his anxiety was like a storm, crashing against his resolve, fading back for a while, then returning with renewed fury. Now it was swirling in his body, and Darel fought to maintain control of his voice as he spoke.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I’ve had no report from you. The schedule is . . . it can be accelerated, if necessary, but that would mean diminished objectives.” He frowned. “Locating the target is imperative.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Of course it is,” Lanesh muttered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Shrinn hid a smile. He should have reprimanded her: Disrespect to a superior was something the Corps didn’t tolerate. But he’d learned long ago that he didn’t have to hear every murmur from his people. And Lanesh was correct: Shooting a message pod here was dangerous. Planetary Defense could detect a transition anywhere within its orbital grid, and a preset D-space pathway would leave markers that could be untangled with the right software and a few good guesses. A worried reminder that the mission was important wasn’t worth the risk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Darel must be closer to absolute panic than I thought</u>. Not for the first time, Shrinn wondered whether he should have rejected this mission—and reported Darel for treason.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>But Darel, for all his nervousness, was no coward—unlike the Century Emperor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I have received word that the—someone related to the target . . .” Darel took a breath, conscious of the mistake he’d almost made. “Someone has retained the services of a freelance agent. This agent may be as close as you. Watch for him. Or her. Don’t take any chances.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Chances. As if this mission wasn’t the biggest risk any of them had ever taken.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Darel gritted his teeth, trying to look fierce. “Report as soon as possible. With results.” His image froze, then disappeared.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“A freelance agent?” Lanesh brought the cam feeds back up onto her screen and highlighted one square, maximizing it. “There’s been no sign of the Heir on cam. Yulin and Jenks are sweeping 2-Bemani, with Catret and Wynne on 2-Darr. They anticipate shifting to their next patterns in three hours. Unless they find him. But the agent is . . . here. At the Registry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Lanesh had launched a program to sift the security cam feeds for any beings matching Rumav’s description, and she’d added a few other elements to the mix so they could monitor—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Foxe.” They’d picked him up using Rumav’s alias several times, and Lanesh had started monitored him closely. Now he was standing in a cubicle marked L. Frayn by the system, which also identified her as a recruiting agent—a matchmaker for ships looking to hire crew from any being looking for a cheap escape from Crystal Rendezvous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The freelance agent was male. Slender, short dark hair. He didn’t look overly muscular, but his sharp eyes had an intense focus. Even standing still, he looked powerful and dangerous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Shrinn had watched a playback of the human’s fight with the clawed Utans. Foxe moved like a whip, quick and hard, with discipline and precision. He focused on his target, struck without hesitation, and kept moving toward his next opportunity. He had military training, that was certain, and intelligence. An ordinary tracer would work the station on his own, relying on determination and luck. Foxe had enlisted assistance to expand his efforts, and he was obviously skilled at getting information, encouraging beings to talk openly with him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Trouble.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Can you get audio?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Of course.” Her slender fingers manipulated more keys. “Coming up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The female Frayne was speaking. “—only two hits on his sheet, after a handful of look-sees. No confirmed offers. Short one, you know? His best skill is data scanning and research, and those aren’t the major crew slots. They want engineering skills, hard/soft tech maintenance, security. Or maybe comfort services, but you know what that means.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>They watched as Foxe set a handcomp on the desk between them.<span> </span>“Can you give me all the ships that looked at his sheet?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Frayne looked at the device. “That’s confidential data . . ..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe dropped a credit tab next to the handcomp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She smiled and stretched her arms. “Give me two minutes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Can you get that data?” Shrinn asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“One minute. And you don’t even have to bribe me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Shrinn suppressed a smile as he nodded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He watched her fingers as they glided across the keyboard, enjoying their dexterity, their skill. The clenched muscles in Lanesh’s neck were hard knots. He held his hands behind his back, controlling the desire to touch her.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Got it,” Lanesh said with a smile. “<u>Antibes </u>and—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Here,” Frayne said. “The <u>Triumph of Baxtill</u> and the <u>Antibes</u>. Plus the—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Her smile of satisfaction vanished. “Damn it, I don’t know how she—” She tapped at her fieldcomp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Forget about it, as long as you have the data.” Shrinn patted her shoulder lightly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>On the screen Foxe stood up. “Okay. Thanks.” He tossed another credit tab on the desk and walked away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Lanesh’s fingers whirled over the fieldcomp’s panel. “The target hasn’t passed through any checkpoint for either ship. Or his badge hasn’t, for all that counts.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Then he’s still here.” A school rat like Rumav wouldn’t know how to get a counterfeit station badge. He might not even think of getting one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Aje is close.” Lanesh lifted her arm and began tapping at her comsol. “I can have him eliminate Foxe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He shook his head. “I’ll take a run at him. Soft approach.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“What about backup?” She swiveled her chair, ready to stand and go with him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Your post is right here.” He pointed at the hardscreen. “Keep track of him. But remember that Rumav is still our objective.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Foxe looks substantial. You might need—“</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I need you to follow orders.” His tone was cold.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Sir.” She sank down in her chair, embarrassed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Lanesh was a top officer. The best member of his team at field intel. And she loved him.</div>
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A sudden rush of desire heated his blood. He could take her, right here, now—just like the Night of the Knives on Cestar, when they’d been forced to wait until dawn to attack a town of Cestan larval warriors. In the rain. In the mud. Laughing, gasping, muffling their cries. Finished in minutes, unsatisfied but complete.</div>
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Not their most romantic encounter, but the most powerful in his memory.</div>
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Lanesh didn’t ask for special favors. Their relationship couldn’t interfere with the unit’s discipline. She understood that, and it meant as much to Shrinn as her passion for him. She was a member of the team, first and foremost. The team depended on him. Only that mattered.</div>
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She gave him a nod. “I will maintain my post. Sir.”</div>
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“Carry on.” He stepped to the panel.</div>
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“Be careful, sir,” she whispered.</div>
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He opened the panel, stepped into the passageway—and found the female Murrani walking back. Her round eyes flared with surprise. “Ahh . . . you have a hiding place. For play?”</div>
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He hesitated. “What happened to your friends?”</div>
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“They finished. And paid.” She straightened her vest, emphasizing the curve of her pale breasts.</div>
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“How much?”</div>
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The female leaned forward. “One hundred cees. Worth it.”</div>
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Shrinn gestured her to come closer with one hand. “All right.”</div>
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One green tongue slowly extended from her lips. “Like this?” Her legs stretched as she lifted a hand to his shoulder.</div>
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Shrinn shifted his other arm and rammed his sonic blade into her chest and thumbed the activation tab. The female grunted. Her jaw dropped, revealing her jagged teeth. He twisted the blade, digging into her furry flesh, and she grunted again as her eyes froze. Her legs sagged. He caught her before she fell, disengaged the blade, and returned it to his pocket.</div>
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Good, he thought. One less stupid cunner infecting the galaxy.<span> </span>Quickly he covered her wound with dermal spray before the bleeding could spread. Then he slung her arm over his shoulder and began to carry her, murmuring in her ear as if she were drunk, too drunk to walk or fight back. He only had to get her to another section, then dump her body in a sanit cube. Where she belonged.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>No one would pay the Blades to look for her, or to hunt for her killer. Crystal Rendezvous was a place where beings vanished every day, and no one cared. Animals. Whoever found her would probably use her body for pleasure, even though she was dead.</div>
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<span> </span>Find Rumav. Get off this station. Deal with Foxe—whoever he was. Do your job. No one else mattered.</div>
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<br /></div>
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
SIX: Encounter</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Foxe logged onto CrystalWeb at a kiosk outside the Registry. The two ships actively requesting Rumav’s sheet had already paid off their station fees and were probably already inside D-space right now. But four of the six other look-sees were still docked at the Branch:<u>Queen of Castledon</u>, <u>S’haref</u>, <u>Quili’s Fire</u>, and<u> Anistor.</u></div>
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The names and registration info told him nothing. He couldn’t search each ship, any more than he could interrogate every being on the station. He needed to work faster now that he had competition in the game.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>A sharp pang in his stomach reminded him that he’d eaten only a nut bar for breakfast. He could go several days without food—once in the mountains on Metras he’d gone a week and a half on nothing but a few bugs while hiding from a vengeful nark dealer—but the odor of grilled eel and baked sweets from the restaurant seemed to attack the hollow feeling like a smart missile. He could ignore the hunger. The impatience growing inside his guts was more insistent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He called Lonan-en on his comsol. The Narixian listened to his list of ships. “Well, Smitty of <u>S’haref</u> only checks the postings to look for sex partners. The others I don’t know. I have heard from Delmass of Masonian, who says a being with seven fingers approached him, but he already had a contract to Sector Seven. I am running out of places and beings to ask.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“So you concede defeat?” Not that the money mattered to Foxe.</div>
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<span> </span>“There is no luck—only time,” Lonan-en reminded him.</div>
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<span> </span>“I’m running out of time. I’ll send your payment and we can dice for another time.” The kiosk had a credit transfer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I await the day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He smiled grimly at the dilemma: Where did he want Rumav to be right now? On station—where he might be captured or killed before Foxe could locate him? Or on a ship headed anywhere in the galaxy? Where he might be safer for the short term, but harder to find than a speck of interstellar dust?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Too many options could drive a being crazy. The Bekkan monks had taught him a proverb: <u>Roots in the ground guide the tree toward the stars</u>. The tree never got to the stars, of course, but that wasn’t the point. The tree stayed connected to the world around it. He had to do the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He began calling each ship’s recruiter individually. The conversations were mostly short and uninformative. One recruiter challenged Foxe to a duel for suggesting he’d try to dodge the Registry commission payment by hiring “Hanbor” off-book; Foxe pleaded cultural stupidity to calm him down before signing off. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. Debasing himself to strangers was the easiest part of the job. At least he no longer had to do it to screaming staff sergeants.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>When he opened his eyes something around him felt . . . different. He automatically brought his comsol to his face and punched in a random code, frowning to the error message and punching in another code while he scouted the area. A human couple near the kiosk were kissing; a Narixian female sauntered from the Admin office; a mixed group stood in front of the Registry office, speaking quietly among themselves. Nothing unusual.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He’d spent too much time alone on a hundred different worlds, waiting for something to happen, to mistake the feeling of being watched. A subtle flicker of the eyes, an unexpected movement—or the lack of motion, a halt, sudden silence. He couldn’t always find it, and sometimes it probably meant nothing. But he didn’t dare ignore the sensation if he wanted to stay alive.</div>
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<span> </span>He stood up form the kiosk. The human couple moved away, down a corridor. Foxe followed them, not because he thought they were watching him, but to see who followed him. Drawing out surveillance was always tricky—too many other beings around and they’d lose each other; too few and the pursuer might simply drop away. With a little luck he could find a spot out of sight without alerting the hunter—and without giving the hunter a clear shot at him. He forced himself to breathe with a slow, steady rhythm, keeping all his senses pitched to their highest point.</div>
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<span> </span>A lifttube junction came up. Foxe let the human couple head down the passageway and joined a trio waiting for the next lift, turning his head casually. Two symbiotic female Mestians linked through an umbilical in their chests, came up to wait.</div>
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<span> </span>An Up liftcar opened. It was large enough to carry twenty beings or more, and Foxe counted eleven streaming off, some dressed for work, others for games and fun, a few not dressed at all. Then the waiting throng began filling the car. Foxe held back as if he’d changed his mind. Doors closed.</div>
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One male humanoid stayed with him, arms folded across his chest. He saw the hands. Seven fingers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Rumav had seven fingers.</div>
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<span> </span>A Down car arrived. As it cleared, Foxe looked over his shoulder. The humanoid hesitated, and Foxe stepped inside. He pressed the button to hold the car for a moment. With a mild shrug—but without direct eye contact—the seven-fingered follower slipped quickly into the car.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe stood near the control panel next to the doors. His passenger slouched against the rear wall as the car began descending. Advertisements for bars and exotic services flashed on the wallscreens around them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He used a glance at the flowing ads to check out his target. Brown shipsuit, no ID tags. A pulser strapped to his right hip. Sharp angles on a face tanned by harsh suns, coal-black hair cut tight like his own. Yellow eyes like distant stars, and there it was, above his right eye—a small scar, curved like a hook. Just like Tijo had told him.</div>
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The door hissed open. Foxe slipped out of the car first, moving to immediately join two Narixians and a four-armed android waiting in the junction for the next Up lift. The hook-scarred humanoid followed, as if he was no longer trying to hide. But he took a position next to an android, ready for Foxe’s next move.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Okay. They couldn’t play comet-tag forever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Foxe pushed the Narixians aside as the liftcar doors opened. “Sorry, none of you.” He held up a hand and gestured toward his pursuer. “Come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>One of the Narixians cursed him viciously. The android remained rooted to the deck.</div>
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Foxe motioned again. “You. Come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>His lips twisted in a smile. Then he stepped into the car.</div>
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The doors closed.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe stared at his face, but kept his eyes on the seven fingers close to the pulser at the man’s hip. “Shrinn.”</div>
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He nodded. “Foxe.”</div>
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<span> </span><span> </span>“What’s your game?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Shrinn met his gaze. “None of your concern. Get off this station while you can.”</div>
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<span> </span>“You know that’s not going to work. Who are you working for? Why are you looking for Hanbor?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Hanbor is mine. That’s all you need to know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“You’re going to kill him?” They were the same race. Maybe—just maybe—Shrinn had the same mission: to bring Rumav home safely.</div>
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<span> </span>“You’re just a merc. This isn’t worth you dying along with him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>That’s a yes, then</u>. “And you’re a soldier? I don’t take orders anymore.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Did they throw you out?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe nodded. “Actually, yeah. Court martial. I deserved it.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Don’t get in my way.”</div>
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<span> </span>“We can shoot this out right now,” Foxe said. “Which is fine with me. Or you can walk out without getting anyone standing outside that door killed. And we’ll finish this later. Your choice—right now.”</div>
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<span> </span>“I can see why they let you go.” The doors opened. “Coward.”</div>
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<span> </span>“I’m alive. Let’s see if we both stay that way.” He gestured. “Out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>A human female led two androids into the liftcar, brushing past him. They glanced at Shrinn, and pressed themselves against the wall of the liftcar nervously as Shrinn watched the doors close from outside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe took a deep breath.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Shrinn had let him go without hesitation. That meant he expected to find him again whenever he needed to. A link into the cam network, probably. <u>Hellcore</u>. Shrinn, the red-haired female—how many beings were looking for Rumav? How close were they? Was Rumav even on Crystal Rendezvous yet?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>His comsol tingled. M’tajj. Luck? “Foxe here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Greetings. You should come here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The doors opened again, and Foxe headed out into the junction, checking ahead and behind for Shrinn in case he’d managed to grab another car and get ahead of him. “You’ve got something?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Perhaps.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Has anyone else come to you, looking for this being?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>A pause. “You didn’t ask for an exclusive contract.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Hellcore</u>. “A human female with red hair? Or a humanoid male with yellow eyes?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Not on the open network. Come to my suite.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Slimewhore. </u>“I’ll be right there.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The signal from Shrinn brought an unwanted pang to Lanesh’s throat. <u>The mission</u>, she told herself. <u>Only the mission</u>. But she couldn’t ignore the hope: Maybe he’d found Rumav. They could return. Be together. “This is L-One, all secure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“This is Prime-One, all secure. Where is Foxe now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She maximized his data. “He’s on . . . 2-Alexis. Possibly heading toward the D’Tarrian.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I’ve approached him. He’s dangerous—a mercenary. We need to remove him. Get Aje and Catret to me. Track Foxe and keep me informed.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Yes, sir.” Before she could say anything else, Shrinn cut the signal.</div>
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<span> </span><u>Be careful. Sir.</u> She bit her lip, then opened a signal to Aje.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
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SEVEN: Double</div>
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<br /></div>
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The D’tarrian female sputtered in anger as Foxe shoved past her and stalked through the outer parlor. Two more of M’tajj’s females rose from mats, dartwands dangling from their thick necks. He ignored them and waited for the inner door to open, their whispering curses and threats hovering in the air as he tapped his boot.</div>
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The door opened. Foxe marched in, then came to a quick halt, hand on his pulser.<u>Hellcore</u>. “Who’s that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
M’tajj lounged on a vast pillow, his big feet propped up on a stool. “Greetings. No!” he shouted the females crowding the doorway as Foxe marched into the suite. “We are fine. It’s just business. Just the three of us.”</div>
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The females hissed in disappointment, but the door closed them out, leaving them alone. Just the three of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The human female stood next to M’tajj, her bare arms folded across her chest like coiled whips. Foxe saw dark green eyes like jade, and a hard, determined chin. She wore a maroon shipsuit, an ion pistol strapped to one long leg, and Foxe saw a whispergun down by her other ankle. Her red hair framed her face like a fireball.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Valeria,” she snapped, as if he’d asked an impertinent question. “Valeria Lynd. What is this, M’tajj?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“An ethical dilemma,” the D’tarrian said. With his small hand he lifted a fat white worm and plopped it into his mouth. “Two beings . . . mmm . . . come to me for the same service. Should I perform for one and not the other? Should I expect payment from the first and not the second? Should I cheat one of you, or both? I won’t cheat myself.” He burped softly and licked his thin lips. “So what should I do? Perhaps you should decide between yourselves.” He plucked another worm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Who are you?” Valeria Lynd demanded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Erick Foxe. Who are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She cocked her head. “Reclamation agent. You?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Bounty hunter. Who was her client? “Security consultant, freelance.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Mercenary.” She nodded as if she knew everything she need about him. “Who you working for?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Who’s your client? There was no open bounty on this one, is there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She flashed a teasing smile. “That’s a joke, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Ha ha.” He hadn’t killed Shrinn, but it might be worthwhile to kill her—the game already had more players than he could track. But the icy look in her eyes told him she was thinking the same thing. Not the right time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I want what I came for,” she told M’tajj, watching Foxe like a panther poised to strike.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Answer me one question,” Foxe said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She shrugged one bare shoulder. “Maybe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Shrinn.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Her eyes flickered, suspecting a trick. “Who?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Male humanoid with yellow eyes and seven fingers. Short black hair. A scar above one eye. Is he one of yours?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I’m here on my own.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Whether that was good or bad he didn’t know right now. “Seen him?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“No . . .” She frowned, searching her memory. “Maybe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Maybe this isn’t the job for you. Why don’t you go home and get some training in hologame design?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She smirked. “Ha ha. All right, M’tajj. Give it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>M’tajj rolled forward on his cushion and stood with a grunt. On his big feet he tromped to vine curtain and pulled it aside, revealing a viewscreen tall as he was, surrounded by tapestries of swirling blue dirsilk. He inserted a reed-like datatube into a socket. The screen flared.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Scattered images raced across the shimmering energy screen like random pulser blasts. Foxe glimpsed an empty kitchen, followed by two andys in an arena fighting each other with gleaming swords, and then a crowded tube center. Then the screen flickered. Strings of light rearranged themselves until he and Valeria saw Rumav standing between two doorways, hands lifted in a weak defensive stance, as three beings closed in one him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Robbed, as you reported,” M’t’ajj said. Two of the beings—humans, held Rumav’s arms, which twisted and flailed until the third attacker, a blue humanoid with arms almost a meter long, began beating his chest and stomach. Rumav tried to back away from the punches, to curl up and protect his torso, but in just a few moments he was sagging in the humans’ arms, his fists clenched helplessly. The Blue stopped him pummeling and grabbed Rumav’s face, turning it left and right, poking at his mouth as if examining his teeth. Then he stepped back and caressed Rumav’s cheek like a tender lover.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The two humans released his arms, and he dropped to the deck. They ran their hands across his body, ripping credit chips from his pockets. Rumav clutched at his station badge like a talisman that might still protect him, and they left it alone. Then all three walked away, leaving Rumav in a twitching lump as he gasped for air.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Valeria stared at the screen, her face cold. She whispered something Foxe couldn’t hear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“He had no money left to file with the Blades, so nothing was done, of course.” M’tajj’s finger tapped the datatube. “The next morning he was here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He showed them a view of Pilots’ Ward. Rumav was talking to a Udorian, one arm pressed to his ribs, pausing every few seconds for breath.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I talked to that one,” Valeria said. “His breath smelled like stale mutefish.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Quiet,” said Foxe. “I’m not paying for vacation highlights, M’tajj. Where is he now?”</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj replied with a long curse that had something to do with Foxe’s grandfather. “Any idiot being can scan the camfiles. I analyze everything. Everything.” He froze the image, then zoomed in at a point beyond Rumav’s shoulder—two beings sharing an I-Cube, apparently playing a game. M’tajj pushed his finger deeper into the socket, grunting, and the image sharpened.</div>
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<span> </span>Two humans. They’d held Rumav’s arms while the Blue beat him.</div>
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<span> </span>“Do they show up again?” Valeria demanded.</div>
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<span> </span>“For several hours. This is yesterday, 1328. Today, at 802 . . .” The image whirled and reconnected at the Central Arcade, just off the Branch access. Foxe saw Rumav, trudging like an exhausted trooper, one of the humans at his side. The Blue walked behind him.</div>
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<span> </span>“Out into the Branch,” M’tajj said. “And then he’s gone.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Who is the Blue?” Foxe asked.<span> </span></div>
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<span> </span>“Well, he’s obviously Tadori,” Valeria said. “I’ve only seen a couple on station so far.”</div>
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<span> </span>“His name,” Foxe insisted.</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj withdrew his fingertip, and the screen dissolved. “That is my dilemma. Who should get this information?”</div>
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<span> </span>“How much?” They spoke together. Valeria shot him a laser glare.</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj sank onto his cushion and gobbled a fistful of worms with his large hand. “Ahhh . . . that is up to you.”</div>
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<span> </span>“I don’t have time for games.” He wanted to jam his pulser into the D’Tarrian’s mouth, but the bounty hunter would interfere and M’tajj’s females would arrive within seconds. He waited. He saw Valeria take a deep breath, one shoulder tense.</div>
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<span> </span>With his big hand M’tajj flung a slate to Foxe and then picked up a second one, tossing it to Valeria. “How much do you value this piece of information? The one who wants it more should get it. It seems fair business.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Fair to the owner of the business,” Valeria said, catching the slate in one hand.</div>
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<span> </span>“Money isn’t the only way to measure value,” Foxe said.</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj waved one of his small hands. “It’s the most convenient. My assistants will file a complaint with the Blades, along with full payment for a third-level investigation, if you refuse my terms and resort to violence here. The files are already prepared.”</div>
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<span> </span>Valeria had punched in her bid already. “Here.”</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe considered the proposition. His credit chips had enough i.c. to finance a civil war, and he could recharge them in an hour once he found a Q-Banc link on station. But ARI would take a good hard look at his cred records when he got back. If he got back. 20,000 i.c., he punched into the slate. “There’s more,” he said, holding the slate forward.</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj used two of his small arms to take the slates. His eyes glittered. Foxe glanced at Valeria. She grinned at him.</div>
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<span> </span>At any other time he would have smiled back. Her arms were lean and muscular, like whips, and her eyes promised secrets she’d never reveal. But her grin was too cocky. Foxe would need to keep his guard up with her.</div>
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<span> </span>He scowled at her. She turned to M’tajj.</div>
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<span> </span>“You’re sure?” M’tajj said.</div>
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<span> </span>“Absolutely.”</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj looked at Foxe. “Thank you . . .”</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe reached into his vest with a heave of relief. “Here’s—”</div>
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<span> </span>“. . . You may leave.”</div>
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<span> </span>What the—? “Hellcore!” he said. “What did she give you?”</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj made a sighing noise and held up the slate.</div>
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<span> </span><u>Double his bid</u>, Valeria had punched in.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe stared at her. She winked at him.</div>
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<span> </span><u>Damn it</u>. He forced a smile. “I’ll have to remember that one.”</div>
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<span> </span>It wasn’t over, and she knew it. He’d have to move fast, though. Get a readout on all Tadori aboard Crystal Rendezvous, or maybe just wait until she left the suite and offer M’tajj even more money.</div>
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<span> </span>She slid a credit chip from a pocket and held it out to M’tajj. “Pleasure meeting both of you.”</div>
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<span> </span><u>Liar</u>, Foxe thought.</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj tapped a control on Valeria’s slate. “The matter is—”</div>
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<span> </span>An explosion roared through the room like a plummeting meteor.</div>
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Foxe grabbed for his pulser, Valeria’s arm swung in the same motion. M’tajj pushed his chunky body to his feet, teetering like a tree cut off at its roots, and lurched toward a blue tapestry behind the curtain of vines he’d pulled away from viewscreen.</div>
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<span> </span>The door burst inward, dissolving like ice under a spray of hot water. Shrieks erupted from the parlor. The deck rocked beneath his boots, and the air was suddenly thick with heat. Foxe fired at the door and saw the ion beam of Valeria’s weapon join his an instant later.</div>
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White dust swirled around the opening. A bolt of plasma, fired blindly by someone who didn’t care what he or she killed, incinerated M’tajj’s cushion, reducing it to a black lump of burning fabric that smelled like rotting leaves.</div>
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<span> </span>Valeria spun like a dancer and dashed toward the blue tapestry. Foxe fired at the doorway, and another plasma bolt soared past his arm into the viewscreen. Its crystals crackled and popped and began dropping to the floor to hiss like angry hornets on the quivering illi-grass rug.</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj had vanished behind the tapestry, and he saw Valeria’s feet disappear after him. Not a bad idea, Foxe realized.<span> </span>He directed a steady stream of pulser fire at the wrecked doorway.</div>
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<span> </span>“Hahhh!” The vines swung back as M’tajj’s shout tore the air. Foxe dropped and rolled as M’tajj stepped out from the blue tapestry, larva dropping from the vine curtain all around him him. He held a flechette rifle in two small hands and a pulser in a third. Foxe saw an opening in the wall beyond, quick movement, and then the tapestry fell, covering the exit.</div>
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<span> </span>“Harrhh!” M’tajj roared again. His slender arms trembled as he triggered a storm of tiny barbed flechettes across the room into the swirling gray cloud. Foxe heard shouts and commands through the ringing in his ears. How many attackers? No point in finding out, not as long as he had an escape route.</div>
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<span> </span>“Get out!” he shouted, but M’tajj either didn’t hear or ignored him. The big D’tarrian fired his pulser along with the flechette weapon, waving his big arm defiantly over his head. Foxe flung the thick vines aside. Dozens of larva fell over his neck and scalp and down to the floor as he plunged into the shadowy shaft behind it, hoping he wasn’t retreating into some kind of trap—or that Valeria wouldn’t blast him away out of reflex.</div>
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<span> </span>A second explosion rattled his skull. Foxe flattened himself on hard tile and felt shock waves roll through his spine. M’tajj’s belligerent cry of challenge twisted into a bellow of pain. “Scum of Haldon!” he heard M’tajj curse. “Plaguewhores! Demons and . . ..”</div>
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<span> </span>A hiss of pulser fire cut off his deep voice like the crack of a metallic whip. <u>Hellcore</u>. Foxe scrambled around in the narrow space and peered out through the skein of vines.</div>
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<span> </span>M’tajj’s big body lay sprawled on the rug. The illi-grass carpet was soaking up the yellow blood that leaked from his torso. Illi fed on dead bodies.</div>
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<span> </span>A humanoid form emerged from the smoke carrying a compact pulser rifle. Yellow eyes roamed the room like optical scans.</div>
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<span> </span>Shrinn.</div>
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<span> </span>His face was stone as he caught a hint of movement behind the tapestry. More larva dropped off the vines, bouncing and writhing on the floor. Shrinn swung the rifle and pressed the firing stud, burning the vine tapestry to ash.</div>
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<span> </span>Foxe pushed backward on his knees. One boot hit an obstacle while the other one kicked only empty space. How deep was the drop? Valeria must have taken it. He didn’t have much choice. Another shot from Shrinn—</div>
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<span> </span>He clutched his pulser with tight fingers and rolled backward. He fell—two meters, maybe three, but they felt like light years until he hit bottom and rolled. He came up on his elbows, feeling exposed, helpless, and disoriented, but relieved that he’d been able to hang onto his weapon.</div>
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<span> </span>He’d landed in a communications conduit, a long cramped tube stuffed with cables and relays and output monitors and overload shunts, Even here, holographic advertisements for bliss pits and no-limit Tanda games floated in the air. Graffiti scrawled beneath the bundles of cable declared sincere and obscene declarations of love, lust, and hatred. It was like being trapped inside someone’s unconscious brain.</div>
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<span> </span>Skittering sounds rustled in the shadows. Station rats, mutated rodents and lizards that no space habitat of any decent size could exterminate completely. A flexible glowstrand, wrapped around the wall of the conduit, provided his eyes with dim light. The conduit stretched to infinity in both directions, but closer, maybe five meters up, he saw a flashing sign above a square opening. Egress? Valeria must have left it open. For him?</div>
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<span> </span><u>Move</u>. Shrinn wouldn’t waste time. Foxe pulled his legs around, and slipped through the opening. It put him inside a systems node, one of the hundreds of small chambers between decks and behind bulkheads, where techjocks and hardware runners performed routine maintenance on local segments of the info grid. He slammed the hatch shut and holstered his pulser, then leaned against a bank of network switchbacks and took a deep breath.</div>
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<span> </span>The fear would come later, but it wasn’t fighting for control now. With another deep breath he looked around, found a door, and pushed it open. <u>Back to work</u>, he thought.</div>
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<br /></div>
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* * *</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">EIGHT: Valeria</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A Dolcean female, thin as a sapling, gazed at Valeria in the liftcar as it ascended. Trap? </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Should have waited for a crowd</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, Val thought.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Dolcean stretched her spidery fingers wide, and Val saw her yellow skin darken to a deep gold. Sexual arousal. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, no—not now</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. She leaned back against the car wall, her hip still complaining from the fall into the service conduit, and hid her own hands behind her back, signifying rejection. “Sorry,” she whispered.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Dolcean curled her fingers in frustration.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The doors opened. Val headed down the corridor, her thoughts furious but focused. Just a few more minutes and she would have had the Tadori’s name, ship, and probably his favorite dessert. M’tajj was thorough. Had been. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Kitt</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, she cursed. Now she had nothing.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At least the other one—Foxe?—had the same nothing to work with. Where had he come from? The client should have told her if they’d hired anyone else to look for Rumav. And that attack . . . Maybe they were working with Foxe—ordered to burst in if he didn’t get the data he wanted.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No. She’d seen his face, just before diving for cover behind the tapestry. His eyes were hard as death, but he’d been just as surprised by the blast as any of them. He’d looked angry, but his mind had already started skipping ahead, processing the data, looking for a different angle.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe they were just some angry customers. M’tajj had his enemies.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And maybe Rumav will just walk out of that casino up ahead right now</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. Val kept her eyes alert for movement around her. She’d learned to anticipate good luck in this business, but it was more important to prepare for bad luck. Disastrously bad luck. Carry more weapons than you think you need, scope out additional exits wherever you were, hide some extra credit tabs inside your panties, and assume every being you see is going to ruin your day.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She wondered if Foxe had gotten out alive.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She headed south down the passageway, pulling open a pocket near her knee. Two paincaps—the med would take a few minutes to kick in, but just knowing they were in her system made her feel better. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keep your eyes up</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. They could be just around that corner. Or behind her. Pain stabbed her neck as she glanced back over her shoulder.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How many Tadori on station? She’d seen only a handful. Her memory was good but she hadn’t gotten a long look at the image M’tajj had captured. She’d stored her equipment in a locker just off Arcade Center. The datasifter in her pack could link into CrysNet, help her search through the Branch files for Tadori. And Foxe, for that matter. Learning more about him might—</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No. She shook her head. Foxe wasn’t important. The faster she could locate Rumav’s snatchers, extricate him, the sooner she could leave this plague-damned station. In a few days he’d be just a note in her files. Big part of the job was leaving beings behind. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I’m good at that</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An information kiosk stood in an intersection, and a shortcut popped into her head. A human female was finishing her call. Val waited for her to walk away and stepped up to the board. She ran fingers through her synth-hair, and hoped her face hadn’t taken any bruises. She could use her comm bracelet to make the call she wanted, but that could be traced, and visual would have more impact. She unfastened her shipsuit at the shoulder, letting it drop just enough to reveal some skin beneath. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tools of the trade</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, she reminded herself. She punched in the code.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Crystal Rendezvous Blade Security</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> in sharp black letters flared across the blue screen. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Analyst Jorge S-32 Dekk . . . charging your account . . . connecting</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> . . .</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She’d met him during her last visit to Crystal Rendezvous. Good-looking but shy—easy prey for a female willing to show him a little interest.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This is Analyst Dekk. Are you—” Jorge stopped. His lips grew tight, and he leaned forward in his chair. His eyes shifted upward, over the screen, checking whoever might be nearby.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Val hesitated. Not his typical reaction. “I was wondering—”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What is your request?” The words were clipped and formal.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Blades were supposed to stretch out every call to increase the charges. He stared at her, his face tense, and then Val saw him slowly move his head. Just a few centimeters from side to side. His face was close enough to see every pore.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Nothing.” She cut the connection.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Kitt</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. M’tajj had been dead for only a few minutes, and the file was already active. Jorge’s formality was a warning. Or more likely a precaution for him.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The screen automatically flashed her account total. What? Down 40,000 cees from just a few minutes ago. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Clonesucker</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, she thought. M’tajj had collected his fee automatically—but it wouldn’t do him any good now.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the D’Tarrian had attached a file to the transaction.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All right . . .</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Val walked away from the kiosk and found a sanit cube. Locking the door, she activated her handcomp, and her smile grew wider.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you, M’tajj</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. With a deep breath, she pulled the red synthhair off her head, gritting her teeth at the sting of the adhesive. Washed her bare scalp. Jammed the wig down the sanitary disposal. Then she adjusted her shipsuit’s fit—looser this time—and pressed shifted its color from deep maroon to midnight blue.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wouldn’t fool anyone who knew her, but the Blades would be looking for a redhaired humanoid female in a maroon suit, not a bald one in blue. Hopefully they’d just leer at her ass. She had to deal with the security badge situation before getting back to the Branch, but that would be easy. With a tight smile, she left the cube.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She forced herself to walk slowly, no hurry, as if the most important thought in her head was a drink with an attractive male. The act allowed her to make flirting glances in every direction, keeping her alert to possible pursuit. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one recognizes me</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, she told herself. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m just a cute body and a bald head. No one</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> . . .</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Foxe’s eyes flashed in her head. Yeah. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He’d remember me</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The knot of hair on Dianar’s head swung side to side as she shook her head at Foxe. “There’s a file on you.”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He gripped the edge of the bar. “Hellcore.” Of course. M’tajj had prepared the complaint before Shrinn’s attack. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hellcore</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His body felt ten kilos heavier. Paincaps helped, but the memory of his drop into darkness pushed at the edge of his brain. M’tajj was dead, Rumav could be anywhere in the galaxy, some crazy redhead was ahead of him, and now he had the Crystal Blades to contend with. What else could go wring?</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, yeah. Spark was dead, and his wife was kicking him out.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He nodded. “Just let me get my stuff—”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I never said you had to leave right this second.” She looked disappointed in him. “It’s just a level-three on the general channel. But soon. Maybe the end of the day.”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He grinned. “An hour.” Kiss her? No, she was still Spark’s wife. “Thanks.”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In his back room he popped another paincap and opened a connection into CrystalWeb.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Valeria—was that her real name? He didn’t have time to run a search on her. But she’d seen several Tadori on the station, she said. Foxe hadn’t noticed more than one or two, and he was pretty sure he the being from M’tajj’s vid wasn’t any of them.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tadori were typically xenophobic, and few traveled outside their own system. And they had quirky nutritional needs. A quick directory check located a shop that sold the stems of taye ferns. Other beings might eat the leaves, but only Tadori natives could digest the thick stems.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He tapped the code into his comsol. An automated voice began reciting items and prices; Foxe bypassed it and waited for a live being to connect.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Angelri Delicate. You have questions?” He couldn’t identify the species but the voice sounded eager to sell something—or just to talk.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I’m looking for a friend, a Tadori, who might have been in there with two humans in the last two days.” When the shopkeeper said nothing, Foxe added, “The slimesucker owes me money.”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Let me see . . . We sold some taye stems yesterday, yes. And a supply of Strong in the same transaction. I see a Tadori name on the copy.”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keep throwing the dice and sometimes you win. “What name? What ship?”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“How many cees does he owe you?”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everything has a price</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. Foxe checked the location. “I’ll be there in thirty.” Ten, really, but he wanted to give himself some time for recon.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Very good.”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A call to the other food shop brought nothing. Right now one greedy shopkeeper was his best lead.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He packed his gear. Strapped a sliverbeam weapon to his left arm under the sleeve. Checked the plasma cartridge in his pulser. Tested the vibe on his wavedagger. Took one last look around the storeroom.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That’s it,” he told Dianar out in the bar. “Thanks for your help.”</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Happy landings.” It had been Spark’s sign-off.</span></div>
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<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Foxe left without looking back. </span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Focus on the mission</span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span></div>
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* * *</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;">NINE: Lanesh</span></div>
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Lanesh wiped sweat from the back of her neck. The maintenance node wasn’t intended for long-term occupancy; the air circulation was growing thicker with each passing hour, like a cave cut off from the rest of the world.</div>
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<span> </span>The other members of the team were out in the station. Catret goaded her when he got the chance: <u>Be careful in your little room</u>, he said. <u>Keep the door locked</u>. <u>Don’t walk into a wall</u>.<span> </span>Clonesucker. He’d beg for open space after an hour inside this shrinking cage.</div>
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<span> </span>The screens danced in front of her eyes. Udorians, androids, humans, Blades, Rann-dishii—no Foxe. Where had the plaguedamned human gone? They’d been unable to worm into the badge monitor controlframe, which would have made tracking Foxe by his station badge as simple as playing a game of NetJump. CrystalEye cams covered every public centimeter of the station, but image recognition had its limitations when the program had hundreds of faces from dozens of different species to sift through.</div>
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<span> </span>She could calculate his likely escape routes from M’tajj’s, but two or three quick, random turns were enough to take him off her search grid. Once again their search—for the prince, and now for Foxe—came back to routine search protocols and random chance.</div>
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<span> </span><u>Keep the hope</u>, she told herself, entering new search parameters. As vast as it was, Crystal Rendezvous was finite in area. As long as their targets remained on the station, they could be found.<span> </span></div>
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<span> </span>She swallowed a sip of water from her bottle. She had to drink sparingly, to avoid frequent trips to the sanit cube down the passage. She saw Yulin onscreen, talking to a Murrani, and hoped. Hoped they’d locate Rumav, soon. Hoped she and Shrinn could return home, and . . .</div>
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What? She was no lovesick vid heroine. Shrinn’s ambitions reached far beyond a military career. Hers were simpler: advancement, rank, power, but within the Riskannon Starforce structure. Their sexual needs might intersect from time to time, but any future together was a tangled path she couldn’t foresee. Better to enjoy the sex while she could.</div>
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Only work—duty—fed her family. Her family, which would never become a Family, one of the Fourteen. She cracked her knuckles, one by one, every finger, counting, as she stared at the board.</div>
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<span> </span>Her comm unit buzzed. Shrinn’s code. She licked her lips. Maybe he’d found something. Maybe . . .<span> </span>“This is L-One, all secure.”</div>
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<span> </span>“This is Prime-One, all secure. We’ve got—”</div>
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<span> </span>The panel behind her shifted. “Stand by. This is L-Two. Stand by.”<span> </span>L-Two meant a possible breach. She swung her chair and reached for her weapon.</div>
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<span> </span>A shoe and then a leg swung through the gap in the bulkhead. Then a short, confused human in coveralls carrying a toolpack was staring at her.</div>
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<span> </span>“Who the Mouth are you?” he demanded. “Nobody’s supposed to be in . . .” His voice faded.</div>
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<span> </span>She pointed the Kobar ion pistol at his chest. It felt heavy and awkward. “Close the panel,” she told him.</div>
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<span> </span>“Why is . . . who took this node offline? What are you—”</div>
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<span> </span>“Close the panel,” she repeated. “Right now.”</div>
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<span> </span>He blinked as if seeing her weapon for the first time. Keeping the toolpack close to his body, he reached behind his back and pulled on the panel. His hand slipped once. Then he yanked it shut.</div>
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<span> </span>“Good.” She planted her feet on the deck, leaned forward, and held the Kobar with both hands. “Why are you here?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Just—doing some maintenance down the way, checking the links, and I—I saw this node was offline, and . . ..”</div>
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<span> </span>“You called in to check its status?”</div>
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<span> </span>“No, no. I’m trying to—got three more jobs on my sheet, if I call in they’ll give me more, so I just—I don’t get it. You with the Blades or something?”</div>
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<span> </span>For a moment she considered the question. Convince this tech worker she was on an official mission and he’d leave her alone. Or maybe not. She saw his eyes measure the distance between them, saw his arm tighten. The toolpack was small but heavy.</div>
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<span> </span>“That’s right. What’s your name?”</div>
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<span> </span>He shifted on his feet. His knuckles were white. “I’m . . ..”</div>
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<span> </span>As if the impulse—or the fear—was too strong to resist, he started to bring his arm back, planning to throw the toolpack like an action vid character. <u>Idiot</u>.</div>
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<span> </span>The Kobar wasn’t heavy anymore. An ion bolt soared from her Kobar straight into his chest. The toolpack dropped from the tech’s fingers and landed on the deck next to his foot. His eyes widened, red with surprise, and he stumbled backward, clawing at his burned coveralls.</div>
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<span> </span>Lanesh shot him again and he dropped like the toolpack, clutching his chest as if trying to force one more breath into his lungs. A final gasp, and he died.</div>
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<span> </span>Lanesh holstered the Kobar, stood, and stepped over the body to check the lock on the access panel. Her legs shook. She sank back into her chair.</div>
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<span> </span>“This is L-One. All secure.”</div>
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<span> </span>“What happened?”</div>
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<span> </span>She hesitated. Maybe she could have handled it better, without killing someone who might be missed. But the truth was all she could think of.</div>
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<span> </span>“We had an intruder. He’s . . . silent now. He was just checking an offline node, but there’ll be a problem.”</div>
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<span> </span>“All right. Pack up the room. Prepare to leave.”</div>
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<span> </span>“But—” She could find another node, some other fieldbase. Was he punishing her?</div>
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<span> </span>“The subject is no longer on this station. We were able to enter the D’Tarrian’s files. The data was—I’ll explain later. Ready for new orders.”</div>
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<span> </span><u>What now?</u> “Ready.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Foxe’s ship is docked at Branch 1.56. I’m sending Aje, Catret, and Yulin to meet you there. Disable it. If you meet Foxe there . . .” He hesitated. “Take the appropriate action. Then meet up at our ship to move out.”</div>
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<span> </span>Finally they were leaving. After two days sitting in this node, lurking on the network, she had action. “Understood.”</div>
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<span> </span>“Good.” He paused. “You’re all right?”</div>
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<span> </span>“Yes. I’m fine.”</div>
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<span> </span>“That’s . . . good. Be careful.”</div>
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<span> </span>The air in the tight, cramped chamber smelled cleaner now, despite the spreading odor of the tech’s death. He’d brought some freshness in, but that wasn’t the only reason Lanesh felt suddenly energized.</div>
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<span> </span>She began shutting down her gear, unhooking cables from ports, wiping down every surface she’d touched with DNA-eradicating pads. After days of inactivity, movement and action felt good. Once they found Rumav they could go home, and she and Shrinn—</div>
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<span> </span>No. She couldn’t think about that now. Shrinn was her officer, and he’d given her orders. That came first.</div>
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<span> </span>The dead tech lay on the deck, his eyes wide, his trousers soiled. She stepped over his body, took one last look around the node, and opened the panel. <u>Let us find him soon </u>. . .</div>
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* * *</div>
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TEN: Arcade</div>
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Lonan-en’s chirp of irritation came through the comsol connection clearly. “More dice?”</div>
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“Do you know a Tadori named Lyten?” Foxe growled. “A ship called <u>Quili’s Fire</u>? Anything?”</div>
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<span> </span>He’d been lucky: The bribe he’d paid to the shopkeeper at Angelri hadn’t even been that outrageous. The Strong the Tadori purchased had been scheduled for delivery to <u>Quili’s Fire</u> by 1750, two hours ago. CrystalNet had the ship scheduled for departure in less than an hour, pending final payment of fees.</div>
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<span> </span>He was walking down a 2-Bemani corridor. Two blacksuited Crystal Blades stood near the tube center ahead, interrogating a Ustalli. Foxe adjusted his pack and kept his eyes forward, his footsteps steady. The Blades didn’t notice him.</div>
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<span> </span>A familiar sense of liberation came to Foxe during moments like this—he was racing a laser beam, leaving behind his memories and nightmares. It might last a day, or ten seconds, but at least temporarily his existence made sense in a universe that didn’t follow any plan he’d ever been able to figure out. He was only himself, Erick Foxe—not the cumulative product of all the beings he’d killed and those he hadn’t been able to save. Right now his mind was focused on this moment. Nothing more.</div>
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<span> </span>“I know Lyten.”</div>
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<span> </span>“What about him?”</div>
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<span> </span>“The only thing you need to know is this: cloneslaver.”<span> </span></div>
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<span> </span><u>Hellcore.</u> “You’re sure?”</div>
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<span> </span>“He’s well known in certain communities. Wealthy enough to pay for his secrets, paranoid enough to kill anyone who threatens them. He’s always on the lookout for material.”</div>
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<span> </span>Material. He remembered the Tadori’s hands on Rumav’s face, turning his head back and forth. Jabbing a probe into his mouth. Collecting a DNA sample. They’d left him his station badge behind so they could find him again. If they found something they wanted to collect. Genetic material.</div>
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<span> </span><span> </span>Cloning in the Aligned World was common; some planets barred it for various religious or political reasons, while others preferred it to the messy and random process of sexual reproduction. On worlds where it wasn’t restricted, the AW Charter insisted that it fall under the heading of voluntary agreement—governments couldn’t compel citizens to submit to cloning against their will, any more than they could require augmentation, abortion, or experimentation on sentient subjects without their consent. A member planet could find itself slapped with heavy economic sanctions and travel restrictions if it was ruled in violation of the rules.</div>
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<span> </span>But restrictions created black markets. Foxe imagined them forming in the first few seconds following the Big Bang, sub-atomic particles exchanging energy and mass in violation of the new laws of physics as the universe was struggling to be born. Maybe that was the origin of dark matter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Cloneslavers hunted for their “material” among the dozens of different species across the galaxy. Sometimes they had contracts for specific genetic material; some of them simply collected whatever seemed interesting; others wanted to experiment. Some unwilling subjects became the source of stem cells; others were cloned with modifications to become obedient soldiers or potential organ donors or mindless sex toys.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The victims spent years being harvested, some in biostasis the whole time, others conscious and aware of every intrusive procedure. After a few years they’d be dumped into the vacuum, used up and useless. But their DNA would live on in dozens or hundreds of beings across the galaxy, and the cloneslavers would keep hunting for a new crop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Hellcore,” Foxe said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Is that all? I have dice to return to—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Go.” Foxe cut the connection.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He walked faster, his boots hammering his frustration on the deck. Searching for Rumav on Crystal Rendezvous had been hard enough; getting him out of a cloneslave facility might be impossible. But he had to try. Rumav might have been stupid to believe he could survive Crystal Rendezvous on his own, but his short life as a cloneslave would be a hell no being deserved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>I’ll have to talk to ARI about hazard pay</u>, he thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The feeling of freedom was gone, as if the backpack’s mass had doubled, digging into his shoulders. Damn it . . . Spark was dead. Foxe wanted to envy him—he was out of this life, beyond pain and despair. But Spark had enjoyed his life. He had a wife, a business. He’d left death behind, at least for a few years. He deserved more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>It never made sense. It never got easier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He took the lift up to 1-Alexis and headed toward Arcade Center and the Branch. The passageway grew thick, beings jostling his legs and shoulders from all directions. He kept his senses on full alert, his eyes in motion, and tried to listen between the voices, the curses, the thrum of machinery vibrating through the bulkheads. The walls veered away as the Center grew near.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He listened to the voices around him:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span> </span>“So I offered him fifty but he said seventy-five and then I said . . ..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><span> </span>“ . . . bitch was sweet but then she got nasty and I had to hit her.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“. . . from the D’tarrian, maybe. At least we get off this cesspool.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“But we should have been there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The D’tarrian? M’tajj? Foxe slowed his pace, looking for the source of the voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He stepped onto Arcade Center. Music blasted from a fightclub. Exotic aromas drifted from vents next to a spice parlor as a stumbling Ustalli lurched through the<span> </span>door, leaking juices from the odor receptors in his head. Two humanoids bumped him and his tentacles whirled as he fought for balance. They veered out of his path, paying no attention, and he hobbled toward the slidewalk, murmuring a happy song to himself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Moans of ecstasy flowed from speakers at the door to a bliss pit. Foxe turned and paused, as if examining the flashing holos that hawked the bliss pit’s specialties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Forget it, Aje, we’ve got instructions from Shrinn. Come on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe swiveled his head, hand near his pulser. Two humanoids hurried by him, their arms swinging in identical brown shipsuits just like Shrinn’s. He zeroed in on their hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Seven fingers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Shrinn’s people. Heading back to their ship?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Damn. If they’d cracked M’tajj’s datacore they’d have everything he’d gotten on Rumav. He could track these two, grab one, make him talk . . . No, that would take too much time, attract trouble. Foxe had what he needed. <u>Quili’s Fire</u>. At least this gave him confirmation. Shrinn was exiting the station. Rumav was gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He wondered for a moment about Valeria. He hoped she was chasing a bad lead. Or heading home. Out of his way, and out of any crossfire. He didn’t need any distractions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The two humanoids hurried ahead of him. No chance to tag them and follow from a safe distance. He hurried after them, letting other beings shift in and out of his path as he kept his targets in sight. He had to shove one when to close the gap a little, and the being responded with a vicious hiss of challenge. He muttered a quick apology. The being slouched, disappointed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe walked faster. They stayed off the slidewalks and headed in a straight line through the Center. He could take them down, reduce the competition—how large was Shrinn’s team, anyway?—but getting back to his Cat and finding Quili’s Fire took priority. A quick quantum tag on the hull and he’d be able to locate it when the ship transitioned from D-space. Of course, Shrinn could do the same thing, but there were ways to delay him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“You! Stop right there!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><u>Hellcore.</u> Two big Blades, Udorians, stalked toward him, wearing light battle armor over their torsos and carrying long-barreled N-Tron 55s in their fists.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Let’s see that badge!” one of them barked. “Right now!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>A split second to make a decision. Foxe slowed but didn’t stop as the guards approached him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Aje!” he shouted. “Aje!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>One of them turned. Tall and broad, his eyes darted through the crowd in surprise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Get out of here!” Foxe motioned at the Blades closing in. “They’re on us!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Aje blinked in momentary confusion. His companion glared at Foxe, then slapped Aje’s chest. <u>It’s him</u>! Foxe couldn’t hear the words but the statement was plain. He pulled on Aje’s arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>One of the Blades started toward the two. The other Udorian stalked toward Foxe. Foxe shifted his backpack and then launched himself forward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The Udorian grunted as Foxe rammed his shoulder into his armored chest. The lunge didn’t hurt him but it did force a backward off-balance step. Before the Blade could catch himself Foxe grabbed one of his thick legs and yanked it up. The Udorian howled in anger as he slammed onto the deck, dropping his N-Tron in surprise. Foxe kicked it between the forest of feet and jabbed the Blade’s throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The Udorian let out a screech of anger. Someone in the crowd hooted with pleasure. Crystal Blades weren’t popular anywhere, and they weren’t likely to get much assistance from the locals.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Aje was backing away from the other Blade, confused but reaching for the weapon at his hip. The Blade heard his partner’s shout and spun toward Foxe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe grabbed for his pulser and shot him point blank in the chest. The pulser’s plasma scorched his chest armor, but the intense heat made him stagger. A half-naked female kicked at his ankle, and he fell with a roar into a wall of laughing beings behind him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Aje stared at Foxe as if he wanted to take a shot, but the other one clamped a hand on his wrist and dragged him in the opposite direction. <u>Good</u>. They’d attract attention. He holstered his pulser and stepped over the wounded Udorian on the deck. The nearest door was another bliss pit. It opened as he walked over.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>A short Ustalli stood in the dark room beyond. The floor sloped downward and curved to one side. Foxe heard gasps of urgency and ecstasy from the pit, amplified by speakers overhead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Fifty cees.” The Ustalli sounded resentful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe dropped a hundred-cred tab in the box. “Rear exit?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>His head gestured with one tentacle. “Far side of the pit. Leads to the blood dreamers next door. But I won’t stop anything that comes in here looking for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“I just need a few minutes.” He hoped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The Ustalli let him pass. The floor of the entryway felt rough and pebbled beneath Foxe’s boots. Some bliss pits were set up for beings to literally slide into, but this one had to accommodate dozens of races and walking styles. Ten meters down the twisting walkway he came to a meter-wide ledge that looked out over the pit itself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Three andys stood around the pit, watching, ready to pull out anyone who misbehaved, or needed medical attention from too much blissful excitement. Amber light glowed upward from beneath the twisting, writhing bodies. Foxe smelled thick floral perfumes and animal-scented oils mixed in the unmistakable aroma of sexual heat.<span> </span>A human arm snaked around a Murrani thigh; a ten-fingered hand stroked the sensitive eyestalks of a Rann-dishi. Someone screamed, a high-pitched cry of pleasure or agony above the urgent moans.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>Foxe had done bliss pits. He’d done everything once or twice in his life. A few hours of losing himself in physical sensation that pushed thinking and memory light years away. But coming up, crawling out—everything came rushing back, like a neglected lover angry at being left behind. Momentary pleasure wasn’t worth the enduring regret anymore. He looked away and moved around the ledge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The andys gave no sign of noticing him. Locked cubicles lined the wall, storage for clothes and equipment, but between two cubes on the far side he spotted a narrow opening. Glowtubes outlined the walls. He glanced back, but so far no one had followed him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The constricted passage behind the blisspit came to a doorway. Foxe pushed it open and stepped into a low, cramped hallway illuminated by a dim lighttube in the ceiling. He moved quickly, his pack scraping the walls on either side, and in a few dozen meters he found another door. It was marked “Delemar.” Closed, but its locks were green. Foxe pulled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>White light stung his eyes as he stepped through. He blinked and saw a tall humanoid female standing at a long metal table. She wore a short gray labcoat and sandals, and she was peering up at a compscreen as she drew a murky blue fluid into an injector. Her hands had three fingers and two thumbs. Vials of blood from a half-dozen species, along with other substances, hung in a large nullgrav box mounted on a bulkhead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The female turned her face to him, unsurprised, as if visitors through this rear door were a common interruption. “That way.” She pointed the injector toward a doorway behind her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>He nodded. Dropping his pack, he pulled a few pieces of equipment from its side pockets and jammed them into his vest, then kicked it under the table. He tossed another hundred-cred tab on the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Give me the coat,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>She stared at him. Then, with a smile, she pulled open the coat. Naked except for some sort of thong that wrapped around her hips, she tossed it to Foxe and slid the tab into a pouch in her skin between her breasts. “Good chance.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Thanks.” He fastened the coat, smoothed his hair, and pushed through the door she’d pointed to. A dozen beings lay on cushioned tables scattered throughout the room, tubes inserted into various limbs to let the hallucinogenic chemicals flow through their blood. He nodded to the two female attendants. They belonged to the same race as the one in the back room, but they didn’t wear lab coats. Mostly naked, they adjusted the dosages, watched for signs of overload, and fondled the dreamers’ sensitive areas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>One lifted an eyebrow in curiosity. The other ignored his intrusion. Foxe made his way between the tables and headed out the door onto Arcade Center again.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>No sign of any more excitement than usual. Beings chattered, argued, bumped into each other. He saw a Rann-dishii Blade emerge from the bliss pit and extend his eyestalks in opposite directions. Turning away slowly, he tapped a Narixian on the neck. “Where’s a good sex palace?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Landi’s,” the Narixian responded without hesitation. “Bemani-three. I can take you there.” He cocked his narrow head, assessing Foxe with interest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span><span> </span>“No, thanks.” He stepped quickly onto a slidewalk. The Narixian watched him go, irritated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The slidewalk demanded patience. Foxe could move faster at a brisk walk, but that would attract attention. And he wanted to watch out for Aje and his friend up ahead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>The lab coat wouldn’t hide him for long. But it would take the Blades a few minutes to get his image into the bone-structure recognition programs. Branch access was in sight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span> </span>“Good chance,” the nude female in the blooddream shop had wished him. He hoped she meant it.</div>
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John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-66431733691340421702013-12-31T11:18:00.000-08:002013-12-31T11:18:02.466-08:00A Year in Books: 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j15seOXUODU/UsMYO6aXArI/AAAAAAAAAH8/VVBu98mu0vw/s1600/books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j15seOXUODU/UsMYO6aXArI/AAAAAAAAAH8/VVBu98mu0vw/s320/books.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, I read
65 books in 2013, all SF and fantasy. I kept track, because otherwise at the
end of the year I only remember the last five or six that I finished recently.
Actually, I read a few more—my count doesn’t include George R.R. Martin’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Song of Ice and Fire</i> series, which I
began in the summer of 2012 and read mostly on my iPad while commuting by bus.
I finished up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Dance with Dragons</i> in
July, and officially joined the throngs demanding: “Write faster, George R.R.
Martin, write faster!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The list of
books doesn’t include those I started and decided not to finish. I’m not in
graduate school anymore, and I don’t have to slog through novels that I don’t
really like, darn it! I doubt if any of them were really bad—just not what I
needed to be reading at the time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To cite one
example, I began Neil Gaiman’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anansi
Boys</i> and got about a quarter of the way through before getting bored and
frustrated with the protagonist (or one of them anyway) who was getting pushed
around by his long-lost brother—they’re both sons of an incarnation of Anansi,
the West African Spider god. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Neil
Gaiman’s a fine writer, and it’s probably a good book, but I couldn’t see
making my way through the whole novel to find out if the brother was ever
actually going to grow a spine. (I can recommend Gaiman’s novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Neverwhere</i>, by the way, which I read a
couple of years ago. It has kind of a similar structure—wimpy protagonist is
forced to eventually become a hero—but with more action and more interesting
characters.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The one book
I read that wasn’t a novel was the biography <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Robert A Heinlein: In Dialogue With His Century, </i>by William H.
Patterson, Jr. It’s a very good look at the first half of the life of one of
the 20<sup>th</sup> century’s most influential science fiction writers. I think
Patterson oversells his case a little in the Forward as he tries to argue for
Heinlein’s significance in American culture, and I could have stood to read a
little less about Heinlein’s attempt at a political career in 1930s California,
but aside from those minor quibbles, I found it an entertaining and informative
work. I love reading biographies about writers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyway, I’ll
attach the complete list in a Page on the right. Here, I’ll just list my
favorites. I used a highly rigorous five-star system that mostly consisted of:
“Did I like this? Did I like it a lot? Did I really really like it A LOT?” In
chronological order:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance,</i> Lois
McMaster Bujold</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Apocalypse Codex,</i> Charles Stross </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hydrogen Sonata</i>, Iain M. Banks (final
book) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Spin,</i> Robert Charles Wilson </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fathom,</i> Cherie Priest </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Great North Road,</i> Peter F. Hamilton </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Daedalus Incident,</i> Michael J.
Martinez </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gradisil,</i> Adam Roberts</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Explorer,</i> James Smythe</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ancillary Justice,</i> Ann Leckie</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know, I
know: I should probably broaden my reading a bit and occasionally open a book
that doesn’t feature space travel, aliens, or magic. Maybe next year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-33029566663046759412013-12-23T10:51:00.000-08:002013-12-23T10:51:17.809-08:00Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree . . .. . . Why are you so blurry?<br />
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Happy holidays to my hordes (dozens?) of readers. More chapters, stories, and rambling thoughts in 2014. We're living in the future!John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-2947414659989666552013-12-08T12:27:00.001-08:002013-12-08T12:27:41.593-08:00Winter is coming. . . And here's what it looks like outside my window:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0u3eEYesIGw/UqTV4HJPMwI/AAAAAAAAAGc/ZmFmo-51-DI/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0u3eEYesIGw/UqTV4HJPMwI/AAAAAAAAAGc/ZmFmo-51-DI/s320/photo.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<br />
The snow appears to be falling up. If the TARDIS arrives, the Doctor can find me at the bar.John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-37351613783268815532013-12-02T17:42:00.000-08:002013-12-02T18:02:02.790-08:00Thanksgiving is overYes, turkey and stuffing and family and friends, and taking my son to the bar . . . good times. Now back to the long slog of work and shopping and getting to Christmas, December deadlines and holidays, and the New Year.<br />
<br />
I have read 59 books this year, all of them SF/Fantasy. Maybe I'm in a rut. In the laundry room, of a community bookshelf, someone left the Robert A. Heinlein biography (Part 1: the early years), and I'm reading that right now. It's pretty good. Because this volume focuses on his early life, I don't expect to learn much about the details of how he wrote <i>Starship Troopers</i> and <i>Stranger in a Strange Land</i>, or even <i>The Puppet Masters</i> (one of the first "adult" SF novels I ever read), but you can start to see some of the incidents and experiences that must have shaped his later writing. I think the biographer overplays Heinlein's influence on the 20th century in his intro, but still: Heinlein was a huge influence on science fiction, and SF has been a big influence on technology and culture (excuse me while I check my smartphone), so maybe he's got a point. Good book, so far. And while it's generally positive (it's an "authorized" biography, after all) it doesn't make Heinlein out to be a saint. Just a guy trying to find his way in the confusing days of the early 20th century.<br />
<br />
(Sometimes I remember that I'm living in the 21st century, with access to information from all around the world on a computer I can slip into the side pocket of my cargo pants. Which is maybe more useful to most of us than a moonbase—although I still want that).<br />
<br />
Saw the movie <i>Europa Report</i> the other day. Great. Sort of like Gravity with hints of <i>Alien</i>, although, be warned, if you're looking for monsters, you'll wait a long time. Still, it captures the claustrophobia and fear of a long space voyage and the dangers to be encountered when you're a long, long way from home.<br />
<br />
Posting two new chapters of <i>Prodigal Prince</i> right now, to make up for the fact that I'm late this week. I try to at least post a new chapter every Sunday, but the holiday weekend got out of control.<br />
<br />
And I thank my friends who have been kind enough to read chapters of the new novel I'm working on, <i>The Black Guard</i>. As I think I mentioned before, it's another urban fantasy. With automatic weapons. Gunfights! Explosions! Giant spiders! What more could anyone want? Don't you want to read it? Right now? Please?<br />
<br />
<br />John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-71003366735659329972013-11-24T18:39:00.000-08:002013-11-24T18:39:30.150-08:00Thanksgiving is coming<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I enjoy
books where people actually eat. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
One of the
things I’m giving thanks for right now is <i>Chimes of Midnight</i>, Seanan McGuire’s
latest October Daye book. I bought it at Windycon, a few weeks ago, but I had a
few library books to finish, so I only started reading it last night. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It’s a great
book, of course. Seanan McGuire is one of my favorite authors, But one thing I
really appreciate about her is the fact that, as busy as the heroes get, they
manage to get something to eat. Burritos and sandwiches so far, but at least
Toby Daye and her friends actually pause to have a meal from time to time.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It happens
in books and movies and on TV all the time: The hero sits down to breakfast, or
lunch, or dinner, takes one bite, and then the phone rings and he/she is off to
deal with some emergency. Anytime someone (usually Mom, right?) makes a big
breakfast with eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and even scones, the
hero—whether it’s a cop or a high school kid—grabs a piece of toast, muttering
“Sorry, no time for breakfast, gotta run,” and leaves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Really, he
or she should should get hit by a metal frying pan on the way out of the
kitchen.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’m not
saying I’ve never wasted any food at any time I my life. But I always make sure
my fictional characters eat. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
*****</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In other
news, I’m working on a new novel, which some of you have read a chapter of. It
features a demon-fighting ex-cop named Leo Burden, who’s sort of based on the
mafia vigilantes I used to read about in high school. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
(Some days I
think I’m doing nothing but recycling my ideas from my reading in the 1970s.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I need to be
writing something all the time. I’m waiting to hear about <i>A Bar Called
Revelations</i> (my other urban fantasy novel) that I’ve got out at a publisher—which
reminds me, I need to send them another e-mail reminding them about my query
from June. But I don’t want to start a sequel to that book until I know something
definite about this one. I’ve done that before, and I’ve decided it’s better to
go on to something completely different while I’m waiting. Having a story to
work on is just generally conducive to my mental health, so I’m happy to have
something going.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I did a
thing where I broke the full document of <i>Revelations</i> into two documents,
because at 600+ pages, Microsoft Word apparently can’t handle a complete spellcheck,
and I keep finding typos. Some of them are mistakes that Word wouldn’t find
anyway (“hair red” for “red hair”), so I need to go through it again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So my
challenge for the rest of the year is balancing those two out, at least until
I’ve done a semi-thorough edit on Revelations again.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My other
challenge is keeping up with this blog more consistently. And posting a new
<i>Prodigal Prince</i> chapter at least once a week, or more often. So look! Over there!
It’s a new chapter! Enjoy!</div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-40888232357516738912013-11-17T12:38:00.003-08:002013-11-17T12:38:55.122-08:00Windycon . . . one week laterSo I had a fine time at Windycon last weekend. Got to meet Jim C. Hines, a fine fantasy author, hear him read a story, and get his autograph on my copy of <i>Libriomancer</i>. While I sort of prefer his "Princess" series, in which Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty team up to do battle against evil in a fairy tale kingdom (as others have said, it's <i>Charlie's Angels</i> with swords and magic), I do recommend <i>Libriomancer</i> highly, and can't wait to read the sequel.<br />
<br />
Speaking of books, I bought a bunch! As I always do. I just need to get through one more of my library books before I can start the new October Daye book, <i>Chimes at Midnight</i>, by Seanan McGuire, an urban fantasy series that I enjoy greatly.<br />
<br />
Went to two good panels: One on interstellar commerce, which produced lots of ideas for things that other races might trade, which will be useful for my Foxe stories, since the Aligned Worlds is mostly designed to facilitate interstellar trade more than anything else. The other was, "Should you self-publish?" And I think right now the answer for me is still "No." I still want to find an actual real-life publisher, mostly because marketing my work, which is the bulk of what you have to do when you self-publish, isn't really in my skill set. And as noted SF writer Eric Flint pointed out, when you're marketing your writing, you're not actually doing your writing. And when readers find an author they like, they want more, soon—or they'll go find someone else.<br />
<br />
Other thoughts:<br />
<br />
<b>•</b> I planted my flyers for the site on the "freebie" table. Not sure how many con-goers (if any) picked them up, but it's the start of an experiment. I've got Capricon coming up in February.<br />
<br />
<b>• </b>On that note, I'll be posting the next chapter of <i>Prodigal Son </i>later today. Onward!<br />
<br />
<b>•</b> Also, I'm working on a new series—another urban fantasy story, with automatic weapons. And I'm looking for friends to read chapter one and give me feedback! Please?<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading.John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-79260658804415768962013-11-08T20:48:00.003-08:002013-11-08T20:48:58.979-08:00I come in peace<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Greetings.
If you’re visiting this blog because you happened to pick up one of the flyers
I left out at Windycon, that means I didn’t visit Kinko’s in vain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’m John.
“Light Years Away” is my blog, designed to inflict some of my writing on the
world in hopes of attracting a publisher, or an agent, or at least a few groupies. In
“Stories,” over to the right, you’ll find chapters of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prodigal Prince</i>, my SF action-adventure novel. I’ve moved Chapter
One to the top so you can start in the right place.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
You’ll also
find a few short stories featuring my series character, an interstellar agent
named Foxe—a sort of James Bond/Jack Bauer type who travels throughout the
known galaxy. He’s armed and dangerous, but not always as ruthless as he
pretends to be. You can find out about his origins (in my mind) here: <a href="http://grantson1.blogspot.com/2013/09/foxe-origins_6.html">http://grantson1.blogspot.com/2013/09/foxe-origins_6.html</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My newest
short story about Foxe, “Meat,” should also be over there on the right. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’ve also
written an urban fantasy novel that I’m shopping around: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Bar Called Revelations</i>, featuring bar owner Luther Kane, an
ex-priest with the uncanny ability to detect demonic evil in the people around him—who always seem to wander into his bar
at the wrong moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Me? I live
in Chicago, where I write and edit newsletters on management and communication.
I’ve been doing it for over 20 years, so I must be doing something right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Welcome to
my blog. Enjoy.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-68437747172582642062013-11-08T10:55:00.000-08:002013-11-08T10:55:14.160-08:00Windycon!<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I don’t
think I do conventions right. I don’t go to parties, I’m not good at mingling,
and I tend to keep to myself. I like the panel discussions: authors and fans
talking about books and science and characters and movies, and, yeah, Doctor
Who. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I keep
going to Windycon. And Capricon. Because they’re tons of fun, I get to buy way
too many books, and I see authors I like. Sometimes I even get up my nerve to
talk to them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And I’m
going to Windycon this weekend! Yay!</div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-85899695868510323402013-11-07T17:25:00.002-08:002013-11-07T17:25:52.140-08:00This is my flyer!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QJdl8wrNLC8/Unw9U96r0DI/AAAAAAAAAF4/AUFaxUjdm7M/s1600/LightYearsAwayB-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QJdl8wrNLC8/Unw9U96r0DI/AAAAAAAAAF4/AUFaxUjdm7M/s320/LightYearsAwayB-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I had a
bunch of these printed up and I’m taking them to Windycon, the SF convention I
go to every year, and I’ll dump them on the table next to all the other
materials (cards, newsletters, pens) that other aspiring writers, publishers,
and bloggers leave. My goal is to see if any con-goers pick one or two up—and
then to see if there’s any surge in the traffic here as a result.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Realistically,
I don’t expect to see an explosion of interest. I’ve picked these things up at
past conventions and, yeah, I don’t always check them out later. Oops. I do
like the pens. I’m still using two of them that I picked up at the convention
last year. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But there’s this famous quote from some advertising guy: “Fifty
percent of the money I spend on advertising is wasted, but the problem is, I
don’t know which fifty percent.” And since I’ve done next to nothing to promote
my blog up until now, anything I do has to be an improvement. Right? </div>
<!--EndFragment-->
John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-499312442194472932013-11-03T17:27:00.000-08:002013-11-04T15:39:34.942-08:00Sunday update<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I saw
<i>Ender’s Game</i> today. Spent the weekend waffling back and forth: Friday I
definitely wanted to see it, Saturday I decided no, then today I woke up and
wanted to go. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Indecision?
Well, part of it was based on the fact that Orson Scott Card (who wrote the
novel that the film is based on) is a homophobic twit. But mostly I worried
that this would be another example of Hollywood’s idea of what a science
fiction movie should be: A vague dystopian future, a few spaceships, a
completely simplistic conflict between the haves and the have-nots, and a bunch
of explosions in space. Put them all the elements together, bring Matt Damon or
Tom Cruise or Will Smith into the mix, and release the film in time for summer.
Or just call it <i>Star Trek</i> and hope nobody will notice that it’s nothing more
than special effects, a plot twist, and someone yelling “KHAAAAN!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I
finally decided I wanted to see the film, and I’m glad I did. I read the book
many years ago, and the movie followed it pretty well. The performances are
generally excellent. Asa Butterfield, playing Ender, was great, portraying a
range of emotions from confusion, anger, determination, humor, and especially
betrayal. Hailee Steinfield and Abigail Breslin were pretty wonderful. Harrison
Ford was raspy, maybe a little too simplistic, but nicely balanced by Viola
Davis, questioning the morality of everything Ford’s character is doing, even
though he’s firmly (and in some ways legitimately) convinced that his actions
are necessary in order to save the human race. But I’ve got to say I really
liked Nonso Anozie, who played Ender’s sergeant throughout the film. You would
definitely drop and give him 20 pushups, or 40, if he demanded it. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It’s a
morally problematic story, but that’s the point. What’s justified when you feel
everything you believe in is threatened with total destruction? What would you
do? What should you never do? I’m sure not trying to make this into a 9/11
allegory—the book was written in the 1980s—but it does sort of open the door to
thinking about how far we should be willing to go to ensure our safety.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Okay, that
was little longer than I intended. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Other
things:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The movie I
most want to see from the previews is <i>Mr. Peabody & Sherman:</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qXINE6IDZhQ/Unb3B69OEuI/AAAAAAAAAFc/IDJ0u6xSBzs/s1600/Mr_Peabody_and_Sherman_Jay_Ward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qXINE6IDZhQ/Unb3B69OEuI/AAAAAAAAAFc/IDJ0u6xSBzs/s320/Mr_Peabody_and_Sherman_Jay_Ward.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The other
one is <i>I, Frankenstein—</i>I gather it’s about some monster. And it’s got Yvonne
Strahovsky!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9ZPrQq0CU8Q/Unb3VSKl4ZI/AAAAAAAAAFk/Qj97smhaXK0/s1600/chuck_nbc_tv_show_image_zachary_levi_and_yvonne_strahovski.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9ZPrQq0CU8Q/Unb3VSKl4ZI/AAAAAAAAAFk/Qj97smhaXK0/s320/chuck_nbc_tv_show_image_zachary_levi_and_yvonne_strahovski.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
(That's her on the right.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I sent my
novel <i>A Bar Called Revelations</i> to Ace in June. This is around the time they
suggest I might have gotten a response from them, but so far I haven’t heard
anything. Which is fine—obviously these things take time. I did send an email
asking about the status a few days ago, but they haven’t responded yet. I may
send it to Baen Books next—they publish a lot of urban fantasy, and <i>Revelations</i>
may fit with their list, but the last time I sent them a submission to them I
waited for over a year for a response. Which is also fine, but I’ve realized
lately that I may have misunderstood the term “simultaneous submissions”—that
may apply to sending a bunch of manuscripts at once to the same publisher, not
sending them out to other publishers. So I may look at sending <i>Revelations</i> out
to more than one publisher at a time after this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And I’ve
just recently started work on a new and different (sort of) urban fantasy-type novel.
So far I only have about three or four chapters plotted out and I’ve learned
from experience that without a clear path to an ending I need more than a good
opening to make a book work. Still, I like this latest idea, and I’m happiest
when I’m actually writing something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My Internet
connection? I don’t want to jinx anything by talking about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And finally,
will my blog traffic rise because I talked about <i>Ender’s Game,</i> the way it did
when I posted my thoughts on <i>Gravity</i> a few weeks ago? We’ll see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
PS: But what
about Foxe, you wonder? The suspense mounts in the new chapter I’ve posted.</div>
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John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-61208123918374737442013-10-27T10:57:00.000-07:002013-10-27T10:57:04.293-07:00New name, real nameYou might have noticed that I've renamed the blog. "Experiment in Terror" reflected the fact that I knew nothing about putting together a blog when I started this process, and I was nervous about putting it out there. So terrified, in fact, that I didn't use my real name.<br />
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("Grant" was my father's middle name, and the name that he was frequently called by, especially by my mother. So I really am John Grant's Son).<br />
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But now, under "About Me," you can see not only my picture (and my award! I won an award once!) but my real name. So I guess the fear factor has gone down.<br />
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The new name reflects my interest in space opera: <i>Star Trek/Star Wars</i>-type interstellar action, with exotic aliens, strange planets, heroes and villains, and frequent explosions. Yes, I've been working on an urban fantasy series, complete with vampires, ghosts, and demons, but for right now I plan on keeping those two universes separate. We'll see.<br />
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Anyway, as a bonus, I'm adding a new Foxe story to the site. "Takeover strategies" isn't really new—I wrote it several years ago, but after a brisk edit, I think it works reasonably well. Feel free to tell my what you think.<br />
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<br />John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681865981704453246.post-29441970258177861692013-10-26T11:09:00.002-07:002013-10-26T11:09:49.470-07:00The chase is onThe situation escalates as Shrinn's forces hunt for Foxe . . .John M. Cowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905466251214076912noreply@blogger.com0