He looked back at the monitor, but Blackjack had already disappeared from sight. Vertue licked his dry lips, and felt a little of the tension drain out of him. Even though they currently worked for the same masters, Vertue had never felt comfortable in the mercenary’s presence. Under the polite phrases and stoic calm, he’d seen a deep contempt burning in Blackjack’s eyes, a contempt for everything and everyone who wasn’t strong.
Vertue scowled thoughtfully. He wouldn’t always need the mercenary… and there was always room in the reclamation tanks for one more body. He smiled suddenly, and laughed softly to himself. Leon Vertue turned his attention to the reclamation tank before him, and ran his hand caressingly over the moisture-beaded lid. He thumbed a control and the swirling blue mists parted briefly, allowing him a glimpse of the cold white face below. Frost covered her staring eyes. She was very pretty. So very pretty. And her flesh would be so cold and inviting and helpless to his touch.…
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
Decisions in Council
THE Council chamber was surprisingly wide and roomy, but its timbered ceiling was as low as in any other dwelling in Mistport. The howling spring gales made living in tall structures without high-tech support a risky business. Oil lamps and blazing torches lent the chamber a comforting golden glow, and a battered old heating unit murmured quietly to itself as it supplied a slow, steady warmth. Faded portraits of past Councillors lined the panelled walls, the familiar brooding faces staring down at the present Council with a stern watchfulness. A great circular table dominated the room. Almost thirty feet in diameter, and carved from a single huge block of ironwood, it had been commissioned by the original Mistport Council over ninety years ago. Port Director Gideon Steel ran his plump fingers caressingly over the polished wood of the tabletop, and tried not to yawn as the arguments around him droned on and on.
His chair creaked complainingly as his two hundred pounds of weight stirred restlessly. Steel was beginning to think the meeting would never end. He’d been here six hours already, to no damned purpose he could see. As far as he could tell, it was just business as usual, and they hardly needed him for that. Unless it concerned the starport itself, he was quite content to let the other Councillors go their own way and do what they wanted. Steel had no interest in politics or government, and was only a Councillor because his position as Port Director demanded it. Unfortunately, there was one item on the present agenda that did affect the starport: the installing at the starport of the one hundred and fifty disrupter cannon from the recently discovered wreck of the Darkwind.
Steel laced his pudgy fingers together across his vast stomach and glanced round the Council table, not bothering to hide his boredom. Gideon Steel was a short fat man with calm, thoughtful eyes and a disturbingly cynical smile. He had just turned forty and resented it. He had little tolerance for fools or people who wasted his time, which was why he avoided Council meetings as often as he could get away with it. He sighed quietly, and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. Eileen Darkstrom was still speaking, her harsh staccato voice echoing sharply back from the low ceiling. Steel sometimes wondered if she made such long speeches on purpose, so that when she finally finished, everyone would be so grateful they’d vote for anything she proposed, just to stop her from starting up again. Steel grinned. He wouldn’t put it past her. Darkstrom had only been a Councillor for five years, but she’d already got more done in that time than all the other Councillors put together. She was a great one for getting things done, was Eileen Darkstrom.
She was a short, stocky woman in her late thirties, with a thick bush of bright red hair that burned like glowing copper in the lamplight. Her skin was pale and freckled, but what would have been pleasant enough features were marred by her constant scowl. Darkstrom was a fighter, and didn’t care who knew it. Her green eyes blazed fiercely as she hammered on the table with her fist, and Steel winced in sympathy for the table. As one of Mistport’s leading blacksmiths, Darkstrom’s muscular arm was enough to frighten anyone, let alone a table fast approaching its century.
She was finally getting around to the matter of the Darkwind’s disrupters, but Steel had given up trying to follow her tortuous argument. He looked away, and his gaze fell on the tall, brooding man sitting to Darkstrom’s left. He looked up, and their eyes met for a moment. Steel kept his features carefully impassive. Count Stefan Bloodhawk nodded curtly, and then turned his attention back to Darkstrom, his long elegant fingers laced together to provide a platform for his sharply pointed chin to rest on. The Bloodhawk was known to be well into his forties, but his aristocratic features were clear and unlined, and he had the lean musculature of a man half his age. His shoulder-length jet-black hair had been pulled back and tied with a scarlet ribbon, showing off his prominent widow’s peak. There were those who said he dyed his hair, but never to the man’s face. The Bloodhawk’s dark eyes were hooded and unrelenting, like those of the ancient bird from which his Clan took its name, and his great beak of a nose and high-boned features only added to the resemblance. Steel frowned slightly, and lowered his eyes. There were many things he hated about having to attend Council meetings, and having to talk politely with the Bloodhawk was right at the top of the list.
Count Stefan Bloodhawk was a paragon of virtue. Everybody said so, including him. He was head of a dozen uncontroversial charities, ostentatiously supported the right causes, and was Chief Commander of the city Watch. He was constantly bringing cases of injustice to the Council’s attention, and then demanding to know what they intended to do about it. He belonged to the proper associations, moved in all the right circles, and practised a cold courtesy that was somehow more infuriating than any open insult could ever be. Steel was not alone in wondering just what such a paragon of virtue could have done to end up Outlawed on Mistworld. The Bloodhawk kept himself to himself, and offered no clues.
Steel glanced at him, and then at Eileen Darkstrom. She and the Bloodhawk had been friends for years, and were rumoured to be lovers, though what the hell they saw in each other was quite beyond Steel. In his opinion, the Bloodhawk wouldn’t know an honest emotion if it ran up and bit him on the arse. But then, Steel was just a little biased when it came to Count Stefan Bloodhawk. Over the years, Steel had made a great deal of money from his position as Port Director. He regarded it as a legitimate perquisite. He was careful not to be too greedy, and made sure his little extra ventures never interfered with his work as starport Director. Reasonable enough behaviour, he would have thought. Unfortunately, the Bloodhawk thought differently. More than once he’d used his position in the Watch to try and trap Steel into situations where he could be impeached. So far he hadn’t succeeded, but of late Steel had had to be more than usually careful to cover his tracks. If Steel hadn’t known better, he would have sworn the Bloodhawk was out to get him. The sanctimonious creep.
Steel looked across the table at Donald Royal, sitting slumped in his Chairman’s seat, half asleep as usual. His wispy white hair hung uncombed in long feathery strands, and his face held more wrinkles than Mistport had streets. He’d been a huge and muscular man in his day, but although his frame was just as large, the muscles had slowly drifted away over the years, until now little remained of the giant he had once been. No one doubted his right to sit at Council; he’d earned that right through blood and sacrifice. His past deeds as both warrior and politician were legendary. But these days his mind tended to wander, and since he slept through most meetings anyway, Steel wasn’t alone in wondering why the man couldn’t just retire gracefully with honour and doze by his own damned fire.
Steel looked up sharply as he realised Darkstrom had finally stopped talking, and quickly joined in the polite applause as she sat down. Experience had shown that if Darkstrom felt she hadn’t had enough applause, she was quite capable of getting up and starting all over again. Not for the first time, Steel hadn’t a clue as to what the hell she’d been talking about, but since she’d always been solidly pro-tech, he had n
There was a quiet scraping of wood on wood as Suzanne du Wolfe pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Steel sighed quietly, and braced himself. Du Wolfe meant well, but as an esper herself it was only natural that she should support the esper cause. Steel just wished she’d be a little less open and a lot less long-winded about it. Du Wolfe glanced quickly round the table, tucking a curl of her long auburn hair behind her left ear. Tall, lithe, and elegant, she was barely into her twenties and already heartstoppingly lovely. At first glance she seemed too young and innocent to be a part of Mistport’s ruling Council, but there was a harsh strength in her dark, even eyes, and the beauty of her face was marred by the old whiplash scar that lay redly across her broken right cheekbone. The scar gave her face an odd, twisted look, and pulled up the right side of her mouth into a constant bitter half-smile.
The Empire distrusted its espers, and so kept them under a harsh and brutal discipline. Which was why so many of them ended up on Mistworld.
“Disrupters,” said Suzanne du Wolfe quietly, her hands resting lightly on the tabletop as she leaned forward. “No one doubts their worth as weapons, but we all know their limitations. Cannon have a faster recharge time than handguns, but it still takes their energy crystals a good minute and more to recharge between each shot. With all respect, Councillor Darkstrom, there’s nothing these disrupters can do that the esper shield can’t do just as well, and much more efficiently.”
She stopped, and raised her left hand. She frowned slightly, and a pale blue flame sprang into being, licking lazily around her hand without harming it. Du Wolfe smiled slowly, and the flame blazed up into a stream of bright, burning fire, leaping and flaring like a glowing fountain. The other Councillors leant back in their chairs, flinching from the searing heat. And then the flame was gone, with nothing left to show it had ever been there, save for the unnatural warmth that still permeated the Council chamber. Suzanne du Wolfe was a Pyro.
“The psionic shield has kept Mistworld safe from the Empire for almost two centuries. Working together, espers can hex a ship’s tech and mindwipe its crew in less time than it takes a computer to bring its guns to bear. And espers don’t have to stop to recharge. Disrupters are all very well in their way, but an esper will always be far more dangerous than any man-made weapon.”
Suzanne du Wolfe sat down again, and looked around to see if anyone dared disagree.
“You may well be right,” said Darkstrom, “but in the end espers are only human, and humans can make mistakes. Disrupter cannon just do as the fire computers tell them, and technology doesn’t grow tired or irritable or make mistakes under pressure. A computer simply carries out its orders. No one here doubts that the psionic shield has proved itself to be an invaluable defence; I merely suggest that the time has come to augment that shield with a high-tech system of high-class weaponry. You’ve never seen what disrupter cannon can do to a starship, Councillor du Wolfe. I have.”
“We’re all familiar with your history as a starship Captain,” said Suzanne du Wolfe sweetly. “But that was a long time ago. No doubt the Empire has improved their force shields since then. If we try to match their technology with ours, we’re always going to be at a disadvantage. They have vast sources of high tech to draw on, while ours are already running out. Our only hope is the psionic shield; the Empire will never come up with a defence against espers.”
“I’m not suggesting the psionic shield should be disbanded,” said Darkstrom with noticeably heavy patience. “The shield will still be there, but as a backup provision, in case the tech system should somehow fail. This would free your fellow espers from the need to spend long arduous hours on shield duty, and enable them to take on other tasks where their skills are more needed. At any given time, there are two hundred espers sitting in a trance at the command centre, waiting on the off chance that the Empire might decide to launch an attack. Meanwhile, Mistport is falling apart around us because we don’t have the technology or the espers to keep it running smoothly.”
“Right,” growled Steel. “We can always use more espers. The psionic shield has always had one major drawback; it takes a minimum of two hundred espers working together to raise an effective shield. To fight off an attack by the entire Fleet, we’d need five times that number. What happens if for any reason we couldn’t raise that many?”
“There are over two thousand espers in Mistport alone,” said du Wolfe sharply. “And another fifteen hundred scattered among the outlying farms.”
“There are now,” said Darkstrom. “But only half of them are experienced enough for shield duty. And can we be sure there’ll always be that many? Esp doesn’t always breed true.”
“Right,” said Steel. “Finding the wreck of the Darkwind has been a stroke of immense good fortune, and we’d be fools not to make the most of it. In case you’ve all forgotten, it’s getting harder all the time for smugglers to break through the Empire blockade. We’re running out of high tech, and it’s getting damn near impossible to maintain what technology we have. Even the best-tended machinery will break down in time, and we’re nowhere near being able to build our own high tech. The Darkwind has provided enough systems and spares to maintain us for a few more years, but the disrupter cannon are the main jewels in the treasure chest. For the first time, we have a chance to make Mistworld completely safe from Imperial attack.
“Now with respect, fellow Councillors, I must insist on a decision. I’ve been away from the command centre too long as it is. The technicians are standing by, ready to install the disrupters. I must insist on an answer.”
“For once it seems we are in agreement, Director.” The Bloodhawk’s quiet voice was cold but impartial. “I see no point in further discussion. Since the disrupters are intended to work with the esper shield, rather than replace it, I see no reason why they shouldn’t be installed. The future of the psionic shield can be discussed at a later date. Now, since we all have other duties compelling our attention, I call for a vote. I vote Aye.”
“I vote Nay,” said Suzanne du Wolfe quickly.
“Aye,” said Eileen Darkstrom.
“Aye,” said Gideon Steel.
Everyone looked to Donald Royal, who sat up a little straighter in his chair, blinking vaguely.
“We are voting on the installation of disrupter cannon at the command centre,” said Count Stefan Bloodhawk.
“I know,” snapped Donald. “I’m not senile yet, Bloodhawk. Now we’ve got cannon, it’s only sensible we make use of them. I vote Aye.”
“Well,” said Steel, rising ponderously to his feet. “If there’s no further business… “
“Sit down, Gideon,” said Donald Royal, smiling slightly. “Your precious command centre can manage without you for a little while longer yet.”
Steel sank wearily back into his chair, which complained loudly on receiving his weight again. “All right, Donald,” he said patiently. “What is it this time? If it’s about the sewers again, we can’t afford the time or the technology or the engineers. I know we need sewers—I had to walk through the same streets to get here—but for the time being we’ll just have to go on managing without them.”
“Mind you, the smell is getting worse,” said Darkstrom.
“How can you tell?” asked du Wolfe.
“It takes longer to scrape off my boots.”
“Desperate though our need for sewers is,” said Donald Royal heavily, “we have something more important to discuss. Hob hounds have appeared at the city boundaries. The beasts are at our gate once again.”
For a moment, nobody said anything. Steel frowned, and found himself reaching automatically for the gun on his hip.
“Have there been any actual sightings?” asked Eileen Darkstrom.
“Several,” said Donald grimly. “And three deaths, all in the Merchants Quarter. One of the victims was a little girl. She was only five years old.”
Steel shook his head disgustedly. The winter had barely begun, and already the cold was worse than at any time since Mistport records began. As the temperatures fell lower and lower, and game became increasingly scarce, it was only to be expected that the Hob hounds would leave their bleak mountain passes and open tundras, and come sweeping down to raid the outlying farms and settlements, and then the city. The hounds were always hungry.
“What’s being done?” asked the Bloodhawk.
“I’m sending Investigator Topaz and a company of the Watch into the Merchants Quarter to check conditions,” said Donald Royal slowly. “They’ll make a start first thing tomorrow. It’s not much of a response, but with the weather as it is, I daren’t send any men out at night. Still, if there are any answers to be found, I daresay Investigator Topaz will find them.”
That she will, thought Steel grimly. He’d had dealings with Topaz himself, and wasn’t in any hurry to repeat the experience. The last time the Bloodhawk had tried to nail Steel, he’d sent Topaz to look for evidence. If it hadn’t been for some extremely fast footwork on Steel’s part, she’d have found it. Still, it had to be said that the Investigator was a good choice when it came to hunting down Hob hounds. Even the hounds had enough sense to be scared of Topaz.
“What about the outlying farms?” he asked suddenly. “Any news from them on the hounds?”
“Communications are still out because of the blizzards,” said du Wolfe, just a little smugly. “The Espers Guild are keeping essential news passing, but so far there’ve only been a few vague references to the hounds. A few people have gone missing in the storms, but we’ve had no killings reported.”
“That’s odd,” said Darkstrom slowly. “The hounds don’t usually bypass the farms. And surely there should have been some reports of approaching hounds before this.”
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