by Sara King
“Somehow I doubt that,” Jer’ait said wryly.
“But their eyes…” Caus shuddered. “The only ones I’ve never been able to read have been the deformed ones. If Va’ga allowed the deformed ones to train, then people like me would be few and far between.” Then he chuckled. “But the fools never let those breed. Sterilize them immediately.”
“Their loss,” Jer’ait said, unable to suppress his bitterness. “What of the foodstuffs? Did you already make your profits from it?”
Caus snorted, too caught up in his foolish philosophy to catch Jer’ait’s discomfort. “I sold the food,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Deal done, money made. Now I sit back and count my credits.”
Jer’ait schooled his face and mind into worry. “But what of the assassins?” he insisted. “You said you caught sixteen already? How did you kill them?”
“Slowly,” Caus laughed. “We tortured the last one for twelve days, as an example. The boys wanted to have some fun.”
Jer’ait’s hand tightened shamefully of its own accord. Man’ja had disappeared three weeks ago. They had hoped his death was quick. Some, including Jer’ait, had gone so far as to hope that he had somehow been kept alive. “I see,” Jer’ait said softly, fighting a flush of fury.
Caus’ black eyes flickered toward him with surprise…and nervousness. Jer’ait knew the empath had felt his unprofessional rush of anger. “Are you feeling all right, Dagi?” Caus asked carefully.
Twelve days. They tortured him for twelve days. Jer’ait found it difficult to concentrate through his anger, and chose a different poison for the Jahul than he had been planning. One that took its time to kill. “Not well, no,” Jer’ait informed him. “They were my brethren. The last was my protégé.”
Caus’ tiny black eyes widened and he moved to flip open the booth once more. Jer’ait’s hand fell upon his and rested there. Caus froze utterly as Jer’ait shoved a spine through his palm and injected a poison under the crime-lord’s skin. Caus’ mouth immediately fell open and his skin shifted from a gray to a yellow-green to a black as he emptied every wastes bladder he had over his dying body. Slowly, the crime-lord slumped forward on the table, bulging black eyes wide as they stared up at Jer’ait.
“Did it never occur to you that eventually they would stop sending amateurs?” Jer’ait said softly. He pulled a small black recorder from under his clothing and turned it on. He set it on the table in front of the dying crime boss.
“Caus Rathsaba, you have been found guilty of numerous crimes against Congress, including treason, murder, theft, smuggling…”
Jer’ait took Caus’ personal planner and tucked it under his vest. Then he climbed onto the table with all the grace an ungainly sextuped pattern would allow, planted his two back feet beside the crime-lord’s head, and tugged open the vent. It was large enough for his purposes.
He pulled himself up and pulled the vent shut once his feet were clear. Behind him, on the table, the recorder droned on.
“…hereby sentenced to death by poison.”
Jer’ait had disappeared into the inner workings of the Ueshi foodservice complex and was on his way back to Levren before the crime-lord’s underlings produced enough courage to break into their boss’s booth and discover the body.
He was called for another assignment only two days upon his return.
Most would have found the lack of leave after such a long, dangerous mission to be insulting, but Jer’ait detested idleness. He lived to hunt.
He stepped into the Peacemaster’s office and sat when the Twelfth Hjai directed him to a chair.
“I don’t suppose I have to tell you that was well done, Jer’ait.” Yua’nev regarded him from behind his large desk, his perfect, electric-blue eyes utterly emotionless.
Jer’ait had never liked his superior. They had gone through training together and Jer’ait was the better of the two to have come out of Va’ga alive, but Jer’ait carried a deformity and Yua’nev did not. Thus, Yua’nev had the twelve-pointed star of Twelfth Hjai and Jer’ait remained forever ensconced at Eleventh. The disparity, however, allowed Jer’ait to continue to do field assignments, which he appreciated. “Who do you want to die next?”
The Peacemaster gave him an appraising look, then handed a small black reader across the desk. “A Human.”
“A what?” Jer’ait cocked his head, wondering if he had misheard.
“Read it.” Yua’nev gestured at the reader. “One of the newest species. Bipeds, dexterous, high lingual capacities—”
“I know what a Human is,” Jer’ait interrupted. “I want to know why you need one killed. They are hardly major players in Congress.”
“Apparently, that might not be the case,” Yua’nev said, with all the poise of the Twelfth Hjai. “We’ve recently received a tip regarding this particular Human that we find disturbing.”
That caught his interest. “What kind of tip?”
“The Trith kind.”
Jer’ait stiffened as a thousand different thoughts hurled through his head at once. The Trith were allied against Congress. They were the only species in the entire history of the universe that had not fallen to the power of Koliinaat and the Regency. They managed to do this because, as a species, they could see every moment of every future incident from now until the end of time. That a Trith was involved was…disturbing. “Go on.”
“You are aware that Aez was just destroyed?” Yua’nev asked.
“I heard as much.”
“Along with the message about the Human, we received a prediction that Aez was about to become its own asteroid belt.”
Jer’ait peered down at the reader, fixing the Human’s features in his mind. “A Trith sent us this prediction? Why? They hate Congress.”
“We are aware of that,” Yua’nev said. The Peacemaster was in natural pattern, despite the inconvenience that a Huouyt’s three naturally-aquatic, boneless legs afforded him.
Jer’ait watched as Yua’nev ran a paddle-like hand across the surface of his desk, trailing breja that writhed in white threads across the polished stone. It was a gesture that belied his superior’s anxiety, and Jer’ait watched it with disdain and amusement. Even with his perfect eyes, Yua’nev allowed his thoughts to show.
“However,” the Peacemaster said, returning his attention to Jer’ait, “a Trith does not lie. And, if even a fraction of what it predicted in its message comes true, this Human must be killed.”
“What was the prediction?”
“It told us, before we even knew the Dhasha Vahlin existed, that this Human would vanquish it.”
Jer’ait leaned forward, interested. “There was more. Otherwise you would give it your blessing and see it on its way.”
Yua’nev’s perfect, mirror-like eyes held Jer’ait’s as the Peacemaster inclined his head. “The message also predicted that this Human would destroy Congress.”
“Really.” Jer’ait felt a twisting inside his head as tingles of alarm constricted his zora. “Did it say how?”
“He will fulfill the Fourfold Prophecy.”
Jer’ait slowly let out his breath and fought to keep his breja from rippling against his skin like a raw recruit. “You are sure this is not a prank?”
“Aez was annihilated, Jer’ait. It was the only warning we had.”
“Is it possible that the one who destroyed Aez sent the message?” Jer’ait demanded. “Perhaps it wants this Human dead.”
“It was a Trith,” the Peacemaster said. “A Trith has not been recorded in a few hundred thousand turns, either digitally or otherwise. Our language experts tell us it doesn’t match the ancient Trith we have on file.”
“Doesn’t match?” Jer’ait asked, curious.
“No. It contained minor evolutionary changes natural in the course of language development. We had experts chart it. Every altered word has a root and an evolutionary path. The message was given by a modern-day Trith. One that learned the Trith language as it is spoken now, not a few hundred thous
and turns ago. Our linguists confirmed it.”
Jer’ait continued to frown down at the Human’s picture. “It could not have been faked?”
“No supercomputer in the universe could do this,” Yua’nev said, “even if it had somehow acquired an ancient sample, which is highly classified information accessible only by the Peacemaster, a few select Corps Directors, and Representatives of Congress. It was a Trith.”
“Very well,” Jer’ait said, still somewhat confused. Any fool knew that if a Trith prophesized an event, any attempt to prevent it would only force it to happen. “What do you want me to do?”
“The Trith warned us of one disaster and it came true. We’ve got two more predictions to go on.”
Slowly, it dawned on Jer’ait what his superior was asking. “You want me to make sure the Human lives long enough to kill the Vahlin, then kill him before he can fulfill the Fourfold Prophecy.”
“Yes.”
“And you think we can somehow change this?” Jer’ait eyed the Human displayed on his screen once more. Its blocky face and tiny, dirt-brown eyes didn’t appear to house the great talent and intellect needed to shatter Congress. “Just how many times have the Trith been wrong?”
“When they have been gracious enough to prophesize for us?” Yua’nev snorted. “Never.”
“And what makes you think they’ll be wrong this time?” Jer’ait asked, still confused as to why Yua’nev was trying to fulfill one prophecy and not the other…when the intelligent thing would be to simply kill the Human outright.
“Because if you fail, then I will send another,” Yua’nev replied. “And another. And another. I’ll send the whole of the Peacemakers after him, if I must. The Human will never survive to see his destiny.”
“And you’re sure this is his destiny?” This nagged at him. Trith were not usually so…generous…in their observations.
“There’s another Human,” Yua’nev said. “One who trained with him in Basic. She has been making similar complaints against your target for fifty turns, ever since she had a Trith visit of her own.”
Jer’ait’s breja rippled. “So long? Why has no one dealt with it before this?”
“Your target happens to be one of the most decorated soldiers in Congress,” Yua’nev said with a wry look. “Six kasjas to his name. Despite his former groundmate’s constant intervention. By all accounts, it should probably be more like fourteen.”
Suddenly, the thought that this Human would fulfill the Fourfold Prophecy became much easier to imagine. Jer’ait glanced again at the blocky, pinkish face, trying to picture it earning one kasja, let alone six. It was difficult. When Jer’ait looked at the creature, all he saw were brittle bones to break, tiny eyes, and a fragile brain-casing.
Finally Jer’ait said, “Six kasjas? That would never have stopped us before.”
“He also had a Dhasha prince backing him,” Yua’nev said. “One we wholly respected.”
“You mean you were afraid of him.”
Yua’nev’s electric-blue eyes showed no reaction. “He is Representative Mekkval’s brother. Prince Bagkhal. Your target is Commander Zero.”
Jer’ait twisted his face. “This sounds like it might be annoying.”
“Not overly. Follow the Human. Become his friend. Then, once he fulfills the first prophecy, kill him before he has a chance to fulfill the second. Leave no trails back to us.”
“Become his friend,” Jer’ait said, idly scanning the information on the datapad. “How?”
“You will be assigned to his PlanOps groundteam starting tomorrow.”
A…groundteam. Charged with killing Dhasha. The unpleasantness increased by several notches in Jer’ait’s mind. He scanned the photo. “Has it occurred to you that I might die on Neskfaat before I have a chance to kill him? This might be a self-fulfilling prophecy, Yua’nev. You send me into a war that has a horrendous survival rate and you may not know I’m dead until after the Human has switched sides. If you ask me, I should kill him as soon as I see him.”
“No,” the Peacemaster commanded.
Jer’ait glanced up. “It is the wise thing to do.”
“No,” Yua’nev repeated. “This Dhasha Vahlin is what we’ve been fearing. He’s uniting the Dhasha. Calling them to the systems surrounding Neskfaat from all across Congress. He will carve a hole in our society, unless we can stop him.”
“Just because this Human is prophesized to kill him doesn’t mean that someone else can’t do it in the Human’s stead,” Jer’ait reminded his commander.
“You will not kill him until the Vahlin takes his last breath,” Yua’nev ordered. “Understood?”
Jer’ait returned his attention to the Human. “That pattern looks as irritating as the Jahul. How long will I be required to hold it?”
“You will not take a Human pattern.”
“I…won’t?” He peered back at Yua’nev, frowning.
“No. You’re going as a Huouyt. As yourself.”
Jer’ait flinched, his breja curling tightly against his body. “Is that wise?”
“This Human spent time on Eeloir,” Yua’nev said. “He is reputed to be able to spot a Huouyt.”
Jer’ait snorted. He’d heard that before. “I just killed a Jahul crime lord. If anyone could’ve spotted me, it would have been him.”
“You go as yourself,” Yua’nev said again. “Your natural pattern. No disguise. Jer’ait Ze’laa vehn Morinth, younger brother of Rri’jan vehn Morinth. Va’ga-trained. Number one in the kill rankings. A Peacemaker on loan from the Twelfth Hjai, due to Overseer Phoenix’s request.”
The reader began to tremble in Jer’ait’s hand before he calmed himself. “You are the only one outside of Va’ga who has seen my true form. I should at least take the shape of another Huouyt—”
“No,” Yua’nev interrupted. “You will be on Commander Zero’s groundteam. You will need to change shape in front of him. You will go without a pattern.”
Jer’ait had never allowed anyone else to see him for what he was. To do so now…
Slowly, he said, “Since leaving Va’ga, I have made certain to keep my deformity hidden, remaining in borrowed patterns, giving my shame no chance to assault another’s eyes. It’s the only reason the purists have overlooked the fact I left Morinth. If I flaunt my deformity in public, the other Huouyt will call for my death.”
“Will this be a problem for you?” Yua’nev asked. His perfect eyes were like cold mirrors.
Shame and anger twined within him like lovers. “No,” Jer’ait said, locking his misery away. “I can kill in any pattern.”
CHAPTER 5: The Hungry Kitten
Joe listened in silence as the Ooreiki Peacemaker described the various Headquarters installations he would have to visit to re-activate his enlistment term. He said nothing as they summarized his itinerary and his new command system. The Corps Directors were panicking over the Dhasha rebellion, ordering Planetary Ops to put together teams of their best soldiers—regardless of species—to make up the first wave of the Congressional attack. Phoenix wanted Joe in the midst of it. Of course. Because everyone going to Neskfaat was going to die.
Joe listened, but said nothing. The two Ooreiki Peacemakers expected him to leave with them that night. Two days before he was supposed to meet his brother.
The Ooreiki seemed to notice Joe’s silence for the first time. The huge, slitted pupils of its sticky brown eyes dilated to massive black ovals, its leathery face anxious. “Commander? Is everything all right?”
“I’d like a couple extra days to take care of my affairs.”
“Sorry, sir.” There was real anguish in the young Ooreiki’s dark brown face as it twisted its eight boneless fingers together. “Overseer Phoenix gave me orders to ensure you arrive on the staging planet of Jeelsiht as soon as possible. We’ve already talked to Relocations for collection and long-term storage of your belongings. They’ll take care of the details. Right now, Phoenix wants you to get acquainted with your new groundteam. Your
Battlemaster and your acting Second are waiting for you in the barracks here, and the rest are waiting on Jeelsiht. You’ll only have a few weeks to get to know each other before they’ll be sending in the first wave on Neskfaat, so Phoenix wants you to begin as soon as possible.”
Joe didn’t give a damn what Maggie wanted, but he nodded anyway. “Understood. Anything else?”
“No, sir.” The Battlemaster handed him a thin black sheet detailing his orders.
“Very well,” Joe said, reading them. “I’ll see you again in a couple hours.”
The Ooreiki Battlemaster’s face wrinkled in a relieved alien smile. “Yes, sir.” He had obviously expected—and feared—resistance. “Sorry to bring bad news, sir. We’ll be waiting for you in the shuttle station.”
Joe nodded and watched them leave. As soon as they were out of sight, his polite façade faded. He glanced down at the orders in his hand, then climbed the stairs to his apartment. He set the note from Command on the bed and began packing his meager possessions. When he was finished, he threw the duffel bag over his shoulder and tossed the thin black government sheet into the trash on the way out. He knew it was the final straw Maggie could use to get him permanently thrown in the brig, or executed, but he didn’t care.
God hates a coward.
After fifty-three turns of wondering, Joe wasn’t leaving Earth without seeing his brother.
Twelve hours later, Joe was in Nevada. He found the Hungry Kitten half an hour outside of Las Vegas. He set the haauk down in the sun-baked parking-lot and stepped into the dusky interior.
Music and the scent of cigarettes wafted back to him as a bulky man in sunglasses stopped him to check for weapons. He grunted at the tattoo on Joe’s right palm, but otherwise said nothing. Joe paid the cover charge and walked through the heavy red curtain into the din of the dance room. Finding the contorting, skimpily-clad women strange without the hormone-induced musculature and bald, pale skin of a Congie, Joe found a quiet table and sat down.
“Any idea where I can find Mindy?” Joe asked the mostly-naked waitress who came to take his order.
