by Mel Odom
“I’m a trader.” Morlortai knew the answer was innocuous enough, and he could pass for a merchant because he’d used the cover before. He knew goods, knew tradespeak in dozens of languages, and could be totally boring while discussing items he had for sale. He carried cargo on his ship as well. It was all part of his crew’s cover. They did trade, and most of the time they even profited a little.
The Ishona woman made a hissing sound of disgust and waved a hand at the sprawl spread out over her shoulder. “You can’t swing a dead ightor around here without hitting a merchant.”
“There are profits to be made. Wherever there are profits to be made, you’ll find traders ready to make them.”
Morlortai thought her name was Xirun. She’d introduced herself when he’d offered to buy her a drink two drinks back. He hadn’t planned on her sticking around, but she had and the situation was agreeable to him. She provided cover for him, a reason for him to loiter on the bar’s open patio that overlooked the Phrenorian Embassy. He sat so he could watch Phrenorian warriors come and go through the main entrance.
A head taller than his own slightly less than 1.5 meters, the Ishona woman was lean and covered in corded muscle that played under her speckled golden skin. Her head was humanoid, but less so than Morlortai’s own Fenipalan features. Terrans thought Fenipalans were bland in appearance. Morlortai thought the sameness of pale skin and thin bodies was good camouflage.
“Still,” she said, “you could do more for yourself than cater to another’s wants and needs.”
“If you’d wanted someone different,” Morlortai said, though he took no offense at the slight because he didn’t care what she thought, only that she sat there and provided a cover for his presence—because anyone would have looked at an Ishona woman instead of him, “you could have sat at another table.”
There were plenty of merchants tapping on their PADs and talking on their commlinks. Several of them, of both genders and more than a few neutrals, had looked at the Ishona woman with hopeful eyes.
Xirun, if that was her name, regarded him. “No. Oddly, there is something about you that I find I am attracted to.”
“Maybe it’s the fact that I’m paying for the drinks,” Morlortai suggested.
He removed his sunglasses and cleaned them. When he put them back on, the subcutaneous cyber connections at his temples reconnected to the lenses and stood ready to pull up whatever data he wished to watch.
“I know why you’re paying for the drinks.” Xirun tipped back her glass and emptied it of the violet-colored alcohol. “I can assure you, I’d have to be a lot more attracted to you for that to happen.”
Morlortai smiled good-naturedly. “You are very plainspoken, femme.”
“I’m told it’s a trait not endearing to all.”
“I’m enjoying it.”
One story below the bar’s open patio, several new plascrete buildings showed through the leafy boughs of the jungle, but they stopped short of the armed security fence that surrounded the Phrenorian Embassy. Over the last few years, Morlortai had become familiar with those embassies on worlds that hadn’t yet become embroiled in the Phrenorian War, and none of them looked inviting. In fact, they looked like shiashes pustules, full of poison and ready to burst at the least provocation.
All of the buildings looked like stalagmites thrusting up from the ground. Instead of neat square or rectangular blocks, Phrenorian structures looked like they’d been excreted. They stood wide at the base and tapered to a slender spire. On the tallest of the spires, the ranking military commander was housed.
Morning light gleamed from the dark oval windows. Perched up there, the military commander was a tempting target, but Morlortai knew that was by design. Nothing less than massive gunnery would knock down the structure, and an attack would trigger an immediate response from anti-aircraft guns, satellite-based weapons (even though, by treaty, the Phrenorians weren’t supposed to have them), and ground troops. A military strike or would-be assassin would guarantee the effort would be suicidal in execution. There were plenty of other ranking warriors ready to step up to a general. Phrenorian leaders weren’t afraid to die on the battlefield. At least, most of them.
General Rangha had been different. The Phrenorian had been careful in his public appearances.
On the other hand, Captain Zhoh GhiCemid was fearless. But he kept himself surrounded by his best warriors and defenses.
Zhoh was proving irritatingly difficult to kill. If it hadn’t been for the parameters set by Morlortai’s employer, the assassin felt certain he could have killed his target before now.
Unfortunately, Zhoh’s death had to appear to be at the hands of the Terran military. When he’d first arrived onplanet a little over ten days ago, Morlortai had assumed the kill would have been easily delivered. Except that Zhoh had aligned himself, however temporarily, with the Terran military for the pursuit of weapons dealers.
Strange times were occurring on Makaum.
Morlortai rotated his empty glass on the table, eyed the embassy, and wondered when Zhoh would put in an appearance. The Phrenorian captain had been inside all morning.
That was interesting, and Morlortai felt certain it boded ill for the planet. Even though it was a luxury he could ill afford, he felt sympathy for the Makaum people. They were losing their planet. He’d experienced the same thing himself years ago.
“You’re ambitious,” Xirun stated.
Morlortai shifted his attention to her and smiled. “Am I?”
“With the way you’re watching the Phrenorian Embassy, you must think you’ve got a cargo the warriors there will want.”
Getting caught watching bothered Morlortai. He was more professional than that. “Not really. I’ve just not seen that architecture before.”
Xirun glanced over her shoulder at the Phrenorian spires. “I’ve seen similar. Have you ever visited Turoiss?”
“No.”
“It’s a cancerous eyesore of a planet. The sentient inhabitants there make their homes in the dung hills of the sofoc, the huge predators that roam the mountains.” Xirun emptied her drink. “They’re more an infestation of intestinal worms than a culture.”
“There’s an image I won’t soon forget.”
Xirun smiled, and the expanse of sharp teeth could have been intimidating to most of the true traders in the bar.
Morlortai gave thought to the matter of Zhoh again. The bounty offered for the Phrenorian captain’s demise was an attractive one, but staying in orbit around the planet was expensive. He’d managed to put together a second contract from the (ta)Klar, but that only offset some of the expenses his ship was racking up. A captain had to be trading if he was to survive on his own.
Possibly, he could secure further employment because Makaum was a world in transition, but he didn’t like working too long in the same place. If too many beings dropped dead from suspicious causes—or were outright killed—law enforcement or military asked questions.
Morlortai had succeeded by getting into and out of places quickly.
He stared at the embassy building again and thought of how hard it would be to get to Captain Zhoh GhiCemid now that the Phrenorian general was dead. Despite the credits offered for the target’s death, Morlortai was leaning in favor of abandoning the contract and moving on to another star system. Wherever beings lived, there were individuals who would pay to see another individual dead.
All morning long, he had the feeling of entrapment on Makaum, and had felt he and his team had been static for too long. It was time to cut loose from his present engagement and move on.
The server brought another round of drinks. Morlortai decided he would finish that, try his luck with the Ishona woman to salve his pride, and then get his crew back aboard his ship to seek their fortunes elsewhere.
The Ishona woman’s eyes appeared glassy. Morlortai felt hopeful about his chances.
Then his comm chirped inside his head for his attention.
“Pardon me for a momen
t,” Morlortai said.
When the Ishona woman nodded, a little more slowly than she had at first, Morlortai got up and walked over to the corner of the patio that overlooked the Phrenorian Embassy. He stayed back from the rail and leaned against the side of the bar proper because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Then he answered the call.
“We have trouble,” Turit announced in the flat, unemotional voice his translator/enhancer unit gave him. The Angenen was the ship’s armorer and Morlortai’s spotter in the field.
“What is it?”
“Darrantia got arrested a few minutes ago.”
Morlortai turned that over in his mind, not liking all the possibilities that came with it. “Why was she arrested?”
“She was apprehended while in the possession of stolen goods.”
That wasn’t surprising. Although Darrantia was an excellent ship’s engineer, she did like to dabble in stolen goods. Morlortai had never been able to get her to give up her side hustle.
“It shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll simply pay the fines. In the meantime, I want you to call the crew together. I’ve decided to cancel the contract here. Things have become too risky.”
Morlortai shifted against the wall to his back and watched an aircar lift off from the small heliport on top of the Phrenorian Embassy. He checked the vid feed Honiban had set up through a hack into one of Silver Spin Corp’s low-planet-orbit satellites. The image pixilated into view on the back of his sunglasses.
Even though facial recognition was difficult to achieve on the Phrenorians, he felt certain Honiban’s programs were up to the task of identifying Zhoh. The captain was not one of the aircar’s passengers, so he still remained somewhere inside the building.
“Getting Darrantia back isn’t going to be as easy as you think. This isn’t a matter of simply paying a fine. She was taken into custody by the Terran military.”
That caught Morlortai’s attention. “Why were they involved?”
“From what Ny’age has heard from contacts at the starport, the Terrans went there looking for Darrantia.”
“They’ve discovered something about the work I did.” Morlortai referred to the assassination of Wosesa Staumar.
Turit’s translator/enhancer tried to emulate a sigh, but it only sounded like a raspy squawk. “I believe so as well. Our luck has changed.”
Morlortai considered his options. Leaving a crew member behind wasn’t one of them. Unfortunately, the assassination had left him in a delicate place. For the first time in years, he felt the jaws of a trap closing in on him.
“Have Ny’age find out what he can.” The Estadyn was a social chameleon and talented at ingratiating himself in with local populations. He served to scout out the places where Morlortai employed his lethal talents. “Surely he’s got some contacts that can tell him what the Terrans want with Darrantia.”
“You and I both know what they want, syonmor.” The Angenen term translated, more or less, into “egg-ling” and was meant to show affection. “The Terran military believes Darrantia was involved with that assassination the (ta)Klar wanted done.”
Morlortai figured that as well. Anger boiled up in him. “Have Ny’age check into that. I wouldn’t put it past the (ta)Klar to give the Terran military information about Staumar’s death to trade for something they wanted.”
“Having the Terran military throwing its weight around to find Staumar’s assassin would muddy the water,” Turit agreed. “I hate dealing with them.”
“As do I, but a profit is a profit.”
“Only if we get away with it.”
“We’ll find a way,” Morlortai said. “We always do. And if it turns out the (ta)Klar betrayed us, I’ll make an example of any one, or ones, who did it.”
ELEVEN
Compartment 683-TMOP HQ
(Terran Military Offplanet Headquarters)
Space Station DSC-24L19
Loki 19 (Makaum)
LEO 331.9 kilometers
1218 Hours Zulu Time
“You’re nervous, Colonel.”
Quass Leghef’s announcement caught Nathan Halladay off guard. To his way of thinking, he wasn’t presenting any sign of apprehension. During his career in the Terran military, especially while serving under General Howard Whitcomb, he’d learned to never betray any inner turmoil or qualm.
Or dread.
He was definitely feeling dread today, and waiting to be allowed into the general’s office was wearing on him. He was Howard’s XO, the man who ran Fort York on a day-to-day basis.
Beside him, dwarfed by his size, the Quass sat prim and proper. She wore a ceremonial gown made from kifrik silk dyed dark green with strands of gold woven into the scheme. Silk ribbons of the same color and pattern held her black hair back from her narrow, sharp features. A little gray showed in her hair and Halladay was aware that she was old by Makaum standards even though he didn’t know her exact age. Slight as she was, her presence commanded respect.
Without Pekoz, the old man who was her constant companion and bodyguard, the Quass seemed incomplete. Pekoz was on bed rest under doctor’s orders and Halladay knew that only Quass Leghef’s insistence that he stay there kept the man from her side today.
Pekoz was still recovering from injuries he’d suffered during the assassination at the Festival of the Beginning. The Quass had suffered from injuries as well, life-threatening ones at that, but she had bounced back surprisingly quickly.
Halladay tried to figure out how to respond to her statement. Admitting his apprehension wasn’t something he wanted to do. He glanced around at the general’s secretary and three other officers waiting to see Whitcomb.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Quass Leghef waved away his concern. “I doubt any of these other soldiers have noticed. There are no outward signs. You’re very good at masking your feelings. I have simply been around you long enough to get a sense of you. That talent is part of what makes me a good politician.”
Ongoing scientific studies had shown that the Makaum people had latent psi abilities. Speculation held that those abilities had been honed in the jungles, allowing them to sense the predators that filled the wilderness that comprised the planet. The Makaum weren’t forthcoming about those abilities.
“Yes, Quass, I have to admit that under the circumstances I am feeling some duress.” If he’d only had one battle facing him, Halladay thought he would have been fine. But there were several, and how he proceeded with them depended largely on how the general reacted to his visit.
His and the Quass’s visit. He wasn’t alone in this. He needed to remember that, and remember the fact that he was representing his soldiers and the people they’d sworn to protect.
Quass Leghef patted him on the arm the way his grandmothers had done when he was a boy. It felt odd, but comforting all the same. “It will be all right, Colonel. After all, it’s not like General Whitcomb is waiting to devour you.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Then don’t feel so grim. Everything will be as it should.”
Halladay wished he felt as confident as the old woman sounded. He knew that Whitcomb was no longer the man that he had been. The general once possessed a keen, incisive mind. In his younger years he had been a warrior. When Halladay was a young lieutenant and got assigned to Whitcomb, Halladay had heard the stories and taken pride in his position.
Unfortunately, by the time Halladay had become senior on the general’s staff, those halcyon days were gone. These days, General Whitcomb managed planets and star systems that needed protection from the spreading Phrenorian threat. They had been planets just like Makaum. And not all of them had been saved. The general had gotten good at giving ground before the enemy.
The young lieutenant at the receptionist’s desk glanced up at him. She looked tired, but she still summoned a smile. “Colonel Halladay. The general will see you and Quass Leghef now.”
Halladay stood, straightened his jacket, and offered the Quass an arm to aid her in getting to h
er feet. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Quass Leghef took his arm only briefly, not needing much help at all, and stood at his side. She took in a breath and let it out. Then she led the way into the general’s office.
General Whitcomb rose only slightly when Halladay and Quass Leghef stepped inside his office. The effort was perfunctory, with absolutely no heart in it.
Whitcomb waved a hand toward the two seats in front of his massive polycarbonate desk. The black surface gleamed as though freshly polished. “Good afternoon, Quass. Please. Sit.”
The Quass sat and left the chair to her right open for Halladay. “Thank you, General.”
Halladay did not sit. He stood at attention, eyes forward, his right hand cocked to his head at a precise angle, and waited for the general’s salute or acknowledgment. The last time he’d been in the general’s office, Quass Leghef had read Whitcomb the riot act, defending Sage’s efforts to apprehend Ellen Hodgkins. That operation had turned bloodier than Halladay had counted on, stepped on a few toes the diplomatic corps had to tend to, and involved a surprising alliance with Captain Zhoh GhiCemid.
Whitcomb resumed his own seat. “At ease, Colonel.”
“Thank you, General.” Halladay fell into parade rest, but still he did not sit. That required an invitation in the general’s presence, and since that invitation was not given, Halladay knew the general was planning on a short meeting.
This time Whitcomb held the whip and everyone in that room knew it.
Broad and blocky, Whitcomb seemed ponderous behind the desk as he pressed his fingertips together. His short-clipped gray hair stood at rigid attention and his cheeks gleamed from a recent shave. The scar from along his cheek was a memento from his early years, back when his battles were fought on the ground instead of over a war table, but it had faded with time. “Quass Leghef, I’m surprised to see you.”
“You were invited to the Festival of the Beginning,” the Quass said. “You were missed.”
