“We heard the yelling and ran, Administrator. That is all.” He smiled, tiny, sharp-looking teeth glinting from his muzzle. “Please forgive our intrusion. We will, indeed, be on our way.”
“Thank you for your concern, revered Hoabin.”
Marcus looked around to find Iphini Bha bowing to the furry creature. The figure in the white robe returned her bow, dipping even lower and waving its arms out to either side, which brought the rod whipping around in an impressive little spin. When it stood, the smile was still in place, and a twinkle in its eyes seemed to mock Marcus. It added fuel to his already smoldering anger.
“Please, little sister, no need. We merely heard your cries and thought to help.” Marcus could not take his eyes off the little creature’s delicate-seeming hands. With each word, one or the other waved about in a hypnotic pattern, the staff passing to the idle hand with each shift of intonation. Tiny black claws extended out from where a Human’s nails would be, and each finger seemed to have one too many knuckles.
“Bullshit.” Marcus spat the word and shook his head to clear the fog from his thoughts. “You’ve been shadowing me since I showed up here. You two haven’t missed a council session, but you don’t talk. All you do is watch.” He jerked a thumb at the dust on the floor behind him. “Until now.”
“Surely you don’t mean to suggest—” The Diakk woman’s face was twisted as it battled to convey both amusement and insult.
“Sihn, what have I told you about your temper?” The smaller figure smiled again, head tilted to the side, as he reached a long, thin arm out to block the black-robed woman. He looked back up at Marcus, and this time the eyes seemed to temper the grinning muzzle with a touch of sadness. “Administrator, again, I apologize. Sihn Ve’Yan is young in the ways of the Thien’ha, and has not yet reached the emotional equanimity of an old campaigner like myself.” He touched his chest wryly with one delicate hand.
Marcus continued to scowl at both of them. He brushed one palm against a thigh and held it up to show the dust. “You just happened to show up now? How the hell do I know this wasn’t your doing? I should throw you in jail until I can figure out what happened here, just on general principal!” He turned to his deputy, her wide, concerned eyes not registering. “Do we have a jail? We have to have a jail, right?”
The small furry creature dipped its head again. “Please, Administrator. Understand, we only wanted to help.”
Iphini muttered, “No, we don’t.”
The Thien’ha master continued over her. “We want only good things for you here, Marcus Wells.” His eyes shifted up to his acolyte’s. “We should go now, however. I can see you are upset by what transpired here.” He bowed low. “I am grateful you are well. May your efforts here in Penumbra be fruitful.”
He jerked his head down the hall the way they had come and after holding her smoldering glare a moment longer, the Diakk woman, Sihn Ve’Yan, spun around and followed.
Iphini Bha was shaking her head when Marcus turned back to her, his face still burning.
“What?” He snapped.
“This was not the work of the Thien’ha, Marcus Wells.” She gestured down to the fine powder on the floor. “The Thien’ha never take a hand in events. They observe, that is all. Sending a cloud of assassin nanobots is not something they would do.”
His eyes narrowed. “And every one of them is a paragon of virtue, right? Didn’t they just say they came here to help? How’s that square with your faith in them? There has never been a single one who has wavered from this ideal path you’re so impressed with?”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe so, no.”
He was breathing heavily, only now coming to understand the threat he had been under, and the miraculous deliverance that had saved him. He looked down again at the medallion. The marks there were clearly a symbol of some kind, although still too vague to read. It was warm to the touch, as well. Whatever had happened, it was the Skorahn that had saved him. He had no doubt about it.
“I don’t suppose the medallion ever behaved like that for Virri either, eh?” His eyes drifted back down the corridor, but the mystics were long gone.
“No.” She shook her head, her voice low, as she stared at the gem.
“Whoever was controlling the cloud …” He brushed more dust off his chest. “Would they have needed to be close?” He jerked his head down the corridor. “Say, right around the corner?”
She shook her head again, eyes rising from the Skorahn. “No. These nanobots could have been programmed hours or days ago. They could have been left here, or they could have moved here on their own, knowing that you would be returning to your quarters at some point. There is no reason to suspect the Thein’ha due merely to their proximity to the attack.”
He was calming down, but his anger and fear were settling into a hopeless, heavy feeling that he did not like at all. He wanted to talk to Justin, or Angara Ksaka, at least.
“Could you see if Angara would meet me in my quarters at her convenience?” He felt the world going vague around him, as if parts of his brain were shutting down. He didn’t even think to worry if it was the nanites in his brain this time. Without waiting for a reply or noticing Iphini’s nod, he moved off down the corridor toward his quarters.
They were lavish and spacious, decorated in pleasing, neutral greens and blues, with the reinforced armor of their initial intended function hidden by sweeping decorative columns and draperies. A central living area featured two wide couches with matching tables between them and an advanced viewing field system that could turn the central area into a massive screen capable of showing him almost anything.
His bed chamber, beyond, featured a huge circular bed that could have been most intriguing at some other time in his life. Lately, however, the foam mattress had known only hard sleep, often with him collapsing onto it fully dressed, when his marathon study sessions finally wore him out.
He collapsed into a chair softer than a cloud and looked blandly at a series of glasses arrayed on the table beside him. Each held a yellow-green liquid, each slightly different from the others. He knew before tasting them that none of them would be what he wanted.
The world of the galactics might have all manner of advances and miracles, and their culinary efforts had to be appreciated, but no matter how hard they tried, and what kind of assistance he tried to give them, they could not recreate the magic of Mountain Dew.
Chapter 15
The roaring of the crowd around them was nearly deafening. And yet Justin sat, his arms folded over the table before him, lost in thought. He had been begging for her to take him to an arena match for ages, but now that he was here, all he could do was brood over the events of the past few days. She tried not to be annoyed. She did not share her people’s affinity for the blood sports of the arena. It was one of the few instances where her own opinions and those of the Galactic Council coincided.
The Council frowned on any show of aggression or violence, and had been most diligent in stamping out all of the various ritualized forms of competitive combat throughout civilized space. There were few races or systems now with the fortitude to brave the Council’s displeasure on the subject. The Tigan nomad fleets were already looked upon as shiftless vagabonds, so no one was surprised they enjoyed such diversions. And here, in Penumbra, where to defy the Council was a laudable reason unto itself, the arenas were among the most popular distractions of the city.
Most of the fighting pits in Penumbra were located in the same massive tower, a converted liquid hauler that had been welded into the Relic Core millennia ago. Each of the massive tanks had been transformed into a sporting arena that could be configured for a limitless array of contests. For generations, however, the majority of the arenas had remained fighting pits for the violent contests that brought so many tourists to this city on the edge of nowhere. Each arena featured specialized venues, from aquatic to arboreal. She had chosen the most traditional arena for Justin’s introduction to the sport, so they
now looked down at a flat surface liberally covered in fine dust or sand, the better to absorb an errant splash of blood or bile.
Still, she hated the fights. Combat was not some frivolous pastime, but something to be taken most seriously. It was something she had dedicated her life to, and she knew she was not unskilled in that pursuit. She hated to see it relegated to a casual pursuit for unrefined dilettantes. On some level she understood the need for a sort of pressure release valve in society for those individuals who were perhaps more aggressive than might be wished, both among the participants in these contests and in the myriad creatures inhabiting the stands. But she had never thought of combat as a game, and she did not like to see it treated as such.
But Justin had been dying to see something of the local scene. It apparently reminded him of similar events back on Earth, which did not surprise her. They had made these arrangements a while ago, and she had almost forgotten until her implants had reminded her upon waking that morning.
Things had been tense since the attempt on Marcus’s life. Angara had been forced to slow down her search for a replacement administrator. She was spending a lot more time with Marcus lately, and found herself, at odd times of the day, wondering how Justin might feel about that. More to the point, she was not sure why she was even thinking about how he felt about it.
They had gone to see Marcus together twice since the attack. Justin had had a hard time understanding what a threat the pile of inert dust in the hall had actually represented. At first he could not envision the layer of grit as an assassination attempt, but she had calmly explained to him what a nanobot attack was, and eventually he had understood all too well. The attack had not only been aimed at the new administrator, it had been aimed by a person with access to the Human DNA codes needed to program such an event. She shook her head, staring at the play of light and shadow on Justin’s hands as they lay tangled before him.
Both of the Humans seemed to have finally sensed the galaxy’s pathos against their kind. It should have been impossible for them to miss it, the more Marcus tried to fit in. She found herself wondering how Justin felt about abandoning his friend to this acclimation by assuming the identity of a Mnymian himself. She thought she had caught a vague edge of guilt every now and then, when he was off his guard. Since the attempt on Marcus’s life, he had seemed far more on edge. She felt like maybe he was finally realizing they were going to have to leave someday; someday soon.
She did not enjoy the emotions that thought brought to the surface.
She had no idea what had been in the bag he had dragged with him all the way from Earth, but whatever it had been, he had been able to parlay it into quite an impressive network of associations in Penumbra. She could see he was good with people, if she was going to be honest with herself. There were very few groups he was unable to insinuate himself into, given time and credits. And credits he had in plenty now, from his many business dealings throughout the city. She did not know the particulars about any of them, but she had done enough digging to learn that he was fairly highly regarded in some very interesting circles.
Despite his rise to relative prominence, she could not imagine that he would stay here with his friend in such obvious danger … could he?
Another bone-shaking roar rattled the table, and her eyes slid up of their own accord to look into the arena. Justin’s position and influence had secured them a private box above the fighting chamber, giving him and his friends an excellent view of the impending carnage. But he had made these arrangements a while ago, long before the attack on Marcus had wrenched his entire life sideways. He did not seem to care where he was now, or what the crowd was shouting about.
While his party had taken their places around the table by the edge of the balcony, the arena below had hosted a series of bouts and practice matches. The fighting styles varied wildly, the contestants were good journeyman fighters but lacked the polish and showmanship of the true veterans. She had expected him to be interested, but he had merely shrugged, saying he had seen better back on Earth. It certainly had not been interesting enough to take his mind off his current troubles.
But as the crowd’s bellowing went on and on, he finally looked up from the table, following her eyes down toward the gritty surface of the fighting pit far below. His breath caught in his throat and a vague smile inched over his features.
The arena had been abandoned by the earlier combatants. What they had seen before had been nothing more than the opening acts, meant to keep folks interested while the true connoisseurs arrived fashionably late and made their ways to the private boxes. But now, as the lights around them dimmed, a single figure had stepped from one of the dark metal gates onto the sand, announcing that the true entertainments were about to begin, and was now basking in the crowd’s accolades. He was turning slowly, four arms extended, flourishing four glittering blades that whirled and spun, each independent of the others.
She raised one eyebrow in appreciation; a Nan’Se La. The four-armed race had been bred for just such spectacles, but few of the sad creatures ever truly mastered the slightly smaller, lower pair of arms that had been grafted onto their Humanoid frames in the dim recesses of the past. Most of the poor beings were unskilled day laborers, scattered across the galaxy and with no planet of their own.
Occasionally, however, a Nan’Se La rose beyond those limitations and reached the vaunted heights the monsters who had created them had intended. The specimen moving out on the sand now was clearly one of those.
Justin watched, the glaring white false lenses flashing wide. The pit fighter was wearing an open long coat of gleaming black micro-armor that looked like metal but rippled like cloth, fluttering behind him like a performer’s cloak. Contrasting with the creature’s sea green skin, it gave the impression of a massive shadow moving across the sands, four blades spinning around the periphery in an amazing show of dexterity and skill.
He carried himself like a veteran pit fighter, but Angara recognized him from far more mundane pursuits. His name was Nett’to Ha; a supervisor in the vast docking bay situated closest to the Red Tower.
“What the hell is that?” Justin could not take his eyes off the preening fighter.
Angara smiled at his distracted enthusiasm. It was probably for the best, considering there was little they could do for Marcus at the moment.
“That is a Nan’Se La.” She accepted a drink slid to her by one of the Subbotine women who seemed to follow Justin everywhere he went. She took the drink with a smile she knew did not make it to her eyes. She had never met a Subbotine she liked. “You may have seen one or two down in the port when we first arrived; I can’t remember.”
He shook his head. “I don’t remember. Do they all …” He waved his hands about to indicate the warrior’s flashing limbs.
Angara shrugged. “I don’t know. I would imagine, if you want to get the most out of a crowd like this, you would want to use every asset your creators gave you.”
“That’s Nett’to Ha.” The Subbotine said with a breathy smile on her pasty face as she leaned into their conversation. She brushed her silken white hair off her shoulder with careful artifice. “He’s only been fighting in the pits for a few weeks.” Her eyes flashed at Justin, and then slid slyly over Angara’s face, tightening for the Tigan bodyguard. “He hasn’t got anything nice to say about the disgusting Human in the administrator’s throne, I’ll tell you that for nothing. And he hasn’t lost a bout yet.”
“He’s about to.” A small Kot’i muttered. The little furry creature was one of Angara’s favorites among Justin’s usual crew. His name was Elam, and he had almost as little patience for the Subbotines as she did. “They’ve just announced a change in schedule.” One furry hand waved a colorful sheet of shifting images. “The fight card for tonight now has him up against the king.”
A murmur ran around the table. Most of Justin’s associates were leaning forward now, looking down at the arena with building anticipation.
Angara felt h
er stomach drop slightly. She looked over at Justin, wondering if she would be able to convince him to go. He missed her concerned glance completely, staring at the Nan’Se La fighter. He probably had not heard the Kot’i’s comment, and would not have understood if he had. She leaned in to look more closely at his eyes. The false lenses were quite good. And they were high above the sands in a private box …
The crowd, whose raucous cries had been thunderous before, were deafening now as a giant stepped out onto the sand. Angara was not watching the arena, however, but Justin, to gauge his reaction. She recognized the new arrival immediately, but then she had dealt with him countless times before in her work for the administrator’s office. It was doubtful, in fact, if anyone in the room could fail to recognize the most famous, or infamous, inhabitant of the city.
Justin’s white eyes widened. He had recognized the new warrior. He must have remembered the battle in the docking port as well, because the dark skinned Human settled back behind the balcony railing, his eyebrows lowering in concern.
K’hzan Modath was a formidable figure in his full-body fighting suit. The shifting plates were held in place with gravitic bonds similar to the systems that connected the control surfaces of the Yud’ahm Na’uka to the hull of the ship. The plates floated over a suit of shimmering mail, giving the red-skinned giant the appearance of an avenging god from some primitive pantheon. He held a dark bronze staff in his left hand, more like a badge of office than a weapon. The base of the staff swelled out to a formidable looking knob, while at the top the substance of the shaft flared out to embrace an oblong gem that glowed with a sullen, crimson power.
“Oh, damn.” Justin swallowed, growing more uncomfortable as he watched the exiled Variyar ruler walk calmly around the periphery of the arena.
There were no showy displays of skill here. K’hzan did not spin his staff, or leap and jump in an acrobatic exhibition. Instead, he stalked around the wide circle with the calm gait of a ruler surveying his lands.
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