"They've about got the house torn down and packed up." Tusk twisted around to look at their ragged companion. "Isn't it time you took off? Wait much longer and the shuttle'll be crawling with those creeps."
"No, no," Sparafucile said, shaking his head and grinning. "You will take care of them for me. Keep them away from shuttle."
The half-breed had been, for the last few minutes, engaged in selecting several tools from an assortment he carried in a chamois skin pouch. Holding each up, he studied every one with a critical eye. The delicate instruments glistened in the lambent light of shuttle, moon, and stars. Tusk recognized them—tools used to work on a shipboard computer's incredibly sensitive and complex microsystems. Sparafucile made his choices, tucked them inside the breast of his tattered clothing, stowed the chamois pouch with the rest of his gear.
"Plannin' to mess up their computer, huh?" Tusk said.
"How the hell are you gonna get inside the shuttle and take the time to do that? They won't all be out shooting at us. You gonna tell 'em you're the friendly computer repairman?"
Sparafucile made a noise that Tusk assumed was his version of a laugh. The half-breed suddenly leaned near Tusk, placed his hand on the mercenary's shoulder.
"Sparafucile goes where night goes. Where there is darkness, there is Sparafucile." The half-breed's whisper hissed like the wind among the rocks. Tusk's flesh crawled. He shook off the clutching hand.
"You have time device?" the assassin asked.
"Naw, they took my watch away from me, along with my gun."
"Then you count. Give me one hundred and then open fire. What are you called?"
"I'm Tusk. This is Nola."
"Tusk," Sparafucile repeated thoughtfully. The half-breed rose to his feet., sharp eyes gazing over the edge of the boulder, studying the terrain, watching the movements of the mind-dead. "No-La." He spoke her name in two distinct syllables, turned his malformed head. The cruel eyes glinted. "I like that name. No-La."
"Thanks. I'm kind of fond of it myself." Nola glanced at Tusk helplessly, raised her brows, shrugged her shoulders.
Sparafucile made the odd throaty sound of a laugh again, then slid into the night. Tusk tried to keep sight of him, but lost him almost immediately among the shadows cast by the boulders. He couldn't see the assassin, couldn't hear him. The wind made more noise; the darkness itself seemed to make more noise.
"Jeez!" Nola huddled near him, shivered. "Who is he? Or rather, what is he?"
"Professional killer," Tusk said, checking his weapon for the fourth time to make certain it was charged. "Sagan could always afford the best."
"You've heard of this . . . Spara-character, then?"
"No. And I'll bet those who have aren't alive to tell about it."
"But that means us!" Nola said, alarmed.
"You betcha, sweetheart." Tusk patted her hand reassuringly.
"But he said he was supposed to take us to Sagan!"
"He didn't say in what condition. One. Two. Three ..."
"Oh. Tusk! Let's just leave! Now. No one would know."
"I thought about it." Tusk paused in his count, glanced around. "But we're a long way from nowhere. No transport. No water. No shelter. And you can bet the breed's got a vehicle hidden near here. He'd find us easy enough. Naw, we re better off—"
"—risking our lives, waiting for Dion. That's the real reason you're staying," Nola snapped.
"Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Maybe. So what?" Tusk avoided looking at her, focused on a target.
"He abandoned us, that's what! Threw us to the wolves!"
Tusk scowled. "He didn't know we were prisoners."
"The hell he didn't!"
"Damn it, Nola—"
"Aren't you supposed to be counting?"
Women! Tusk seethed. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. She drives me crazy sometimes! It's like . . . like she could see inside me! And she has no goddam business inside me! Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Or somewhere around there.
"They're moving!" Nola reported, peering up over the boulder.
A zombie had apparently discovered his dead companions and raised the alarm. Other zombies came running. They stood in a knot around the corpses, flashing nuke lamps into the darkness, debating in cool, dispassionate voices what was best to be done.
"You stay here," Tusk told Nola. He strapped the lasgun around his waist. Fumbling in the assassin's bag, he came up with a couple of grenades, thrust them into his pockets. "I'm gonna try to get closer."
Nola's hand closed over his, squeezed it tightly. "I'm sorry, Tusk. I shouldn't have said that about Dion. It's just that I'm scared—"
Tusk stared down at the ground. Then, sighing, he took her in his arms, held her close, rubbing his jaw in her curly hair. "Yeah. Me, too. I got to admit I don't see a way out of this one yet. We got the devil on one side and zombies on the other. But if we do get out of this, Nola Rian," Tusk added, tilting her face and kissing her on the nose, "I may just have to marry you."
"Yeah? Well, I may just have to marry you back! So there. What's the count?"
"Oh, who the hell gives a damn? Ninety-nine. One hundred. Happy? Good, I'm off. Take care of yourself, Rian."
"You, too, Tusca."
The mercenary kissed her swiftly on the cheek, patted her rump, and darted away among the rocks. Nola lifted her beam rifle, balanced it on the top of the boulder, looked down the heat-seeking sight, taking careful aim. The mind-dead had apparently reached a decision. Several were detailed off to search and began making their way into the ravine. Others returned to their work, leaving the bodies of their comrades lying on the ground.
Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, Nola thought she saw a hunched-over shape slip under the belly of the shuttlecraft. She couldn't take her attention from the mind-dead to look more closely, however, and the next time she snatched a glance in that direction, the shape was gone.
She adjusted the sights, brought her first target carefully into focus. This wasn't exactly her idea of a romantic setting for a marriage proposal. And it would be difficult to come back here to celebrate their anniversaries.
But it would certainly make one hell of a good story to tell the kids. . . .
Chapter Thirteen
I am settled, and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act I, Scene 7
The below-ground levels of Snaga Ohme's estate were vast playrooms for children fond of deadly toys. Innumerable target ranges allowed potential buyers to observe firsthand Ohme's newest weapons and improvements made on the old. The target ranges varied in shape and size, from small, compact chambers designed for the testing of hand weapons to gigantic, cavernous fields carved out beneath the surface that shook with the simulated blasts of lascannons.
A buyer could not only test the latest models, he could test his own skill. Ohme's ranges were built to accommodate the faint of heart, who could shoot away blithely at rows of holographic ducks, or the more bloodthirsty and daring, who could do battle with robots built to resemble Corasians, vapor-breathers, the barbaric warriors of Olefsky's system, the tentacled aliens of Andares 17, the drug-hyped street gangs of Laskar, or the members of Galactic Democratic Republic armed forces—currently one of the most popular displays.
Steelglass windows permitted viewers the chance to watch the "killings." Soundproofing in the ranges kept the noise level down. It was an eerie sight, thought Maigrey, walking the corridors, surrounded by the flare and flash of battle, and hearing nothing except the laughter or applause of some of the observers.
She paused to view Rykilth, the vapor-breather, doing battle on board a representation of a Corasian vessel. Ohme's set was quite accurate, Maigrey noted, having recently been on board a Corasian vessel herself. She shuddered at the memory and when the fiery orange plastisteel body of a Corasian appeared, attacking Rykilth from behind, Maigrey's hand closed involuntarily over the bloodsword.
Rykilth's partner, a Warlady who had been introduce
d to Maigrey as Baroness DiLuna, caught sight of the vapor-breather's danger and shouted a warning. Rykilth turned and fired his weapon—a new-model lasgun. The Corasian kept coming, however. Maigrey grinned, though with a shiver. She'd made thje same mistake herself. Rykilth had neglected to change the polarity on the weapon; the Corasian absorbed the energy blast, actually increasing in strength. Rykilth "died" the next moment; a mechanical voice registered a "kill" for the Corasian. The spectators were noisily appreciative.
"Quite a lifelike simulation, don't you agree, Lady Maigrey?" Snaga Ohme stood at her side.
"Extremely. You appear to be familiar with our enemy. Some might say a little too familiar." Maigrey glanced up at him, saw the starjewel, black and ugly on his chest. She returned her attention to the target range. The Baroness DiLuna, an extremely skilled shot, had just taken out the Corasian.
"I have my contacts, my sources. Highly reliable, as you can see. They should be, of course. I pay them enough. It might surprise you to know, Lady Maigrey, that our government comes to me for information."
"Nothing about you would surprise me, Adonian," Maigrey returned. Rykilth, during his "dead" phase, discovered that his weapon was useless and would be for a full thirty seconds. The vapor-breather scrambled for cover as the orange glow that always preceded a Corasian attack lit the target range.
"Not even to know that I am willing to discuss the return of your starjewel?" Snaga Ohme said offhandedly.
Maigrey folded her arms across her chest, kept her gaze fixed on the game. "Indeed?"
"I've become bored with it, frankly." Ohme twiddled the jewel carelessly. It was all Maigrey could do to keep from throttling him. "It created a nice little sensation this evening, but that's worn thin. It's abhorrent to look at, and a few people have been terribly put off by its hideous aspect." Ohme leaned near her, lowering his voice. "I suppose Sagan's offer still holds?"
Maigrey was about to reply, but the Adonian nudged her. "Too many people around to discuss this now. Your boyfriend's made himself rather unpopular with certain top government officials tonight and I have numerous defense contracts on the line. We'll talk in private. In an hour, go to Green level. One of the target ranges will be closed and locked, an 'Out of Order' sign posted on it. Four long presses on the entry button and two short will gain you admittance, however." The Adonian bowed, with a charming smile. "I look forward to ending our differences. Lady Maigrey."
He left her to join the throng surrounding the victorious baroness, who had just set a new record for number of Corasians killed in a limited time span. The chagrined Rykilth was forced to endure the crowd's jeers, which he took with his usual ill grace, the fog in his bubble turning a noxious shade of yellow. Vapor-breathers were not known for their sense of humor.
"What do you think, centurion?" Maigrey asked Marcus. They moved away from the Corasian target range, proceeding at a slow pace down the corridor.
"I think the last place I'd be in an hour, my lady, is on Green level at a target range marked 'Out of Order.'"
"I agree with you." Maigrey paused, staring at nothing in thoughtful silence. Shaking her head, she sighed. "But, in an hour, that's where we'll be. I will have the starjewel back."
"You shouldn't go alone—"
"I won't. I will inform my lord to meet us there. Well, gentlemen," Maigrey added, purposefully cheerful. "We have an hour to kill."
Dion nursed the pain of his aching jaw, nurtured the seed of rage. It sent down roots into his darkness, sucked up jealousy and thwarted pride, fed off ambition. The plant grew rapidly, its thick stem twisting and writhing inside him, its fruit sweet to the taste, cloying to the senses.
But the visions it produced appalled and sickened some weak part of him. He firmly trampled that part down, kicked the dirt over it. Absorbed in the care and feeding of his fury, he struggled to free himself from the crush of people who surrounded him, babbling incoherently at him. He couldn't hear what they said, couldn't understand.
Shoving the grasping, greedy hands aside, Dion fled, searching for someplace where he could be alone, where it was quiet and he could breathe. He plunged into an elevator, told it to go up . . . up above the mob, up into the clear air. He had no idea where he was, where he was going. When the elevator stopped and the door opened, he emerged into a hallway and saw that it was empty. Dion could almost have wept in relief.
He sank down on a bench, reveled in the silence. The night air flowed in from an open window, ruffled his hair, cooled his burning skin, filled his aching lungs. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall.
His rage blossomed, and though the flower it bore was unlovely to look at and foul to smell, Dion reached out his hand to pluck it. The weak part inside him made him hesitate. This wasn't his idea of being a king—murders, lies, double-dealing. But it would all be for the best, he reminded himself. I'll make it up. Evil is just to get me started. In time, I can afford to be good.
A voice roused him from his dark dreaming. Glancing down a corridor, he saw the shining armor of the Warlord's centurions.
So, Dion said to himself, I didn't come here of my own volition. You led me here, drew me here, just as you drew me to you on Phoenix. Well, I may not have come here on my own, but I'll leave that way.
The young man fingered reassuringly the buckle of his belt, rose to his feet, and walked down the hall. He was nervous, but not afraid. Instead he felt eager, elated, excited. He would prove to them all that he was strong enough to be king.
The hallway was long and, in contrast to the rest of the lavish house, was barren and sterile in appearance. Doors on either side of him were shut and locked. He looked through the occasional pane of glass, saw desks and computers and scraggly plants, fizzing drink machines, coffee makers. Offices. Signs on the doors labeled them: Accounting, Billing, Inventory Control, Secretarial. All closed for the night. Here was where the Adonian conducted his business.
The centurions moved from their positions the moment the boy drew near them, walking farther down the hall. Though they had not glanced in his direction and appeared to be unaware of his presence, Dion knew himself to be under their careful scrutiny, guessed that they were leading him somewhere. The young man's hand clenched painfully over the belt buckle. He'd play their little game. Play it to the bitter end.
The hallway turned at a sharp, ninety-degree angle. Dion left the light of one, entered the darkness of another. This hall was lit only by a purple-blue light gleaming out from a bank of steelglass windows. Halfway down the hall, standing in front of the windows, was the Warlord, the light reflecting off his golden armor. Dion was forcibly reminded of the night Sagan had come to his house, of the night Platus had died by this man's hand.
The nervous, eager excitement drained from the boy, leaving him empty, calm. He could do this.
Dion drew level with the steelglass windows and still Sagan had not turned to look at him. The young man knew the older man was aware of his presence. He followed the Warlord's gaze, looked through the windows. Behind the steelglass were large screens, banks of computers, and other complicated instruments. These rooms, unlike the empty offices, were filled with men and women, monitoring, adjusting.
The Warlord gazed at them intently.
"In there," he said to Dion, starting a conversation as though they'd been talking together for an hour, "is the heart of the Adonian's estate. In there, they control the force field, the sentinels at the gate, the electronic surveillance equipment in the mansion, the murderous devices used to welcome unwanted guests. An interesting room, don't you think, my liege?"
Dion heard the mockery in the man's voice. The sarcastic tone overrode any possible logical sense he could make out of Sagan’s words. What does this room matter to me? What does the Adonian matter?
"Whoever controls this room," the Warlord continued, voice low, pitched for Dion's ears, "controls everything."
"My lord," Dion said, "I must speak with you now."
"You arrived late," Sa
gan replied, withdrawing his gaze from the room, turning to face Dion at last. "I have another appointment. But if you wait here for me, I will return—"
Dion heard—or thought he heard—the sneer in the man's voice. He began to focus his mind, as Abdiel had taught him, upon the weapon. The cumulators responded to the mental stimulation coming to them through the nerves. They began to charge; he could feel them coming to life. Dion slid the gun out of its belt, keeping it concealed in his hand, and aimed it point-blank at the Warlord.
"Your next appointment," the boy said, "will be in hell!"
Chapter Fourteen
. . . one event happeneth to them all.
Ecclesiastes 2:14
Green level, Maigrey was pleased to note, was swarming with people. Having more than half-expected to find it dark and deserted, she and her bodyguards had emerged cautiously from the elevator, only to find themselves engulfed in a champagne-drinking and laughing mob.
Feeling slightly foolish, Maigrey took her hand from the hilt of the bloodsword and shoved her way through the throng. Ohme's salesmen were circulating, writing orders, checking prices and stock availability, and entering sales and shipping dates on small, hand-held computers.
This was Ohme's museum level, Maigrey discovered. Several of the target ranges offered opportunities to use antique weapons, which always provided amusement. Bear Olefsky and his two beefy sons were having a wonderful time, wielding maces and two-handed swords against an army of robotic knights.
Maigrey walked past the various ranges, looking for the one the Adonian had specified, planning to reconnoiter it before entering. The crowd dwindled in size the farther down the long hallway she walked. Many of the ranges at the end were dark, but none were specifically marked "Out of Order." Turning into another hall, she discovered it to be dimly lit and completely empty. She placed her hand on her sword.
Maigrey and her guards reached the end of this corridor, seeing nothing of the range for which they were looking. They had walked kilometers, seemingly, and left the noise far behind them. No one was around, not even a salesman; none of the target ranges were in use. It was so quiet, now, that they could hear themselves breathe. The ground trembled occa-sionally beneath their feet; the lascannon demonstrations were apparently still going on.
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