Zkerig continued to gaze at the distant, mist-veiled Shallows as he sang an indifferent reply. “That should not be a surprise, to one who knows our ways as well, as you have come to know them, Vashon of the Commonwealth.”
“Yes: I know those ways, as well as yourself,” the human agreed without humility, “which is why I am here, on Largess, in Minord, beside your Hobak, to improve a lot, that in the Commonwealth is—strained.” Without further word or song he reached for the neuronic pistol secured at his waist.
The holster was empty.
Zkerig had moved away from him. His flexible nostril was weaving slowly back and forth, his ears were pointed sharply forward, and his lips had pulled back from his teeth. The missing pistol was gripped firmly in his left hand.
“Did you think me half the fool, that you wished to believe, when we were working together, to bring back the Firstborn? That with your position here threatened, and a request to meet you tonight, on this lonely walk, I would not take precautions? Against possible treachery, against deception, against murder?” The Tralltag’s tune had risen to a high pitch. His singspeech displayed the cadence of a conqueror. “Nothing you can do now, nothing you can say now, nothing you can threaten now, matters any longer!”
“It does matter, for I will deal with you now, as the nothing you are, and do so despite, your shameless thievery.” Vashon took a step in the Larian’s direction.
Zkerig tensed. His middle finger appeared comfortable on the pistol’s trigger, while the other two just did manage to hold the alien weapon steady. “Stay your advance, duplicitous human, befouled offworlder, or die. My digit is longer, but I have watched closely, your use of this weapon, and only one finger, is needed to operate it. I can aim as well as you, or better, and though I know not how it works, I know full well what it does.” Raising the pistol, he aimed the projection point directly at Vashon’s chest. “At this range, even a novice with the device, cannot possibly miss, so lumbering a target.”
“You might be surprised, you ignorant thug, at the speed I can move, when properly motivated.” So saying, Vashon launched himself at his former ally.
Zkerig didn’t hesitate. Holding the pistol exactly as he had seen Vashon do, he pulled the trigger. The damp night air clearly transmitted the brief crackling sound the weapon produced. This was accompanied by a flash of energy that enveloped the entire pistol. It flowed through the Tralltag’s hand and partway up his arm before fading to nothingness in the vicinity of the Larian’s elbow.
Twitching violently, Zkerig fell to the ground. A moment later his body was still. Vashon looked down at him for a moment, then walked over and crouched. Reaching out, he recovered and reholstered his pistol. The Tralltag’s lidless eyes were vacant now, staring out into the darkness. With a sigh Vashon used both hands to roll the corpse a couple of times until it slid quietly into the dark water. Straightening, he tracked the dead body until the outgoing current had carried it away from the promenade and into the distance, toward the beckoning Shallows.
Then he turned and headed purposefully back toward the nearest paved street. There was no way the Tralltag could have known that both of Vashon’s weapons were keyed to the human’s personal electromagnetic field via the tiny rubidium sensor embedded in its grip. Anyone except their owner who attempted to use either pistol would induce only failure on the part of the projectile weapon. In the case of the neuronic pistol, there would be—a fatal backflash.
His work for the evening, however, was not quite finished.
As he made his way into the town proper and toward the City Hall complex, he doubted he would have any trouble dealing with the unwanted visitor. Just like the Commonwealth authorities, he thought, to send someone after him who would not carry or utilize advanced weaponry—because doing so would violate the same strictures that the one they sought to take into custody had already violated. Did the authorities expect their envoy, perhaps through the use of witty language, to persuade Vashon to give up everything he had worked for and return voluntarily to Borusegahm station for confiscation and prosecution? Or was he, Vashon, the one being naïve, and the authorities were more cunning than he believed? For example, what to make of this local prattle about the intruder being a “magician”?
It didn’t matter what he was, Vashon knew. If the Commonwealth authorities had underestimated his own resolve and capabilities, it would be to this visitor’s detriment. If they had not, then eliminating the problem might require a little more effort on his part. Either way, the end would be the same. At least now he no longer had Zkerig to trouble him.
As soon as the current irksome situation was resolved, he looked forward to working with a new Tralltag.
—
Locating the quarters that had been assigned to his fellow human was no problem. A brief bit of singspeech and a few coins were all that were necessary to secure the information. Though he was prepared to deal with any guards who might be posted outside the accommodation, there were none. It would all be over quickly: the principal infection removed, and then to be safe, the native guide. The Commonwealth authorities in Borusegahm would never know what had happened to their intrepid but woefully out-of-his-depth representative. After some time had passed, they would probably send another. Or perhaps several in a group, the use of a solitary agent having demonstrably failed. It wouldn’t matter. Singly or several, Vashon would deal with them as required. He had the experience and the will necessary to do so.
He was not prepared for the bell that jingled when he quietly unlocked and then eased open the door, but the sound did not dissuade or slow him. Drawing the neuronic pistol as he rushed the bed located on the far side of the room, he jammed it against the linen-swathed shape lying there and unleashed a charge sufficient to immediately stop the heart of anyone, human or Larian. If anything, the unknowing agent ought to thank his assassin for delivering such a quick and relatively painless death.
He quickly saw that neither thanks nor death were in order. There was no one and nothing in the long, narrow Larian sleeping bunk save a cylindrical mass of artfully lumped padding.
“Over here.”
The sound of curt terranglo was a shock, but Vashon was nothing if not resilient. Not wanting to make another mistake, he lowered the pistol as he turned.
Standing in the open doorway to a connecting chamber was a tall, olive-skinned figure. He had red hair, green eyes, and an air of insouciant conviction. Vashon tensed, then relaxed. Both of the younger man’s hands were visible and neither held a weapon. Still, his attitude suggested either barefaced foolishness or supreme confidence. Until Vashon could be certain which was the more accurate description, he would hold back.
“It was necessary for me to learn very early on in my life,” Flinx said conversationally, “how to sleep in different, sometimes uncomfortable places, and how always to be a light sleeper.” He nodded in the direction of the doorway to the corridor, and to the bell mounted just above the inside. “That was enough to wake me, even in the other room.”
Vashon nodded appreciatively. “It’s a wise man who sleeps lightly.” He started to bring up the pistol. “Soon now you’ll sleep soundly, and without such cares.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Moving slightly to one side, the young man exposed his left shoulder, heretofore hidden behind the doorjamb. Vashon saw there was something on it. When it moved, he knew it was alive. When it spread wings of brilliant blue and pink, he knew it was dangerous.
While Vashon’s emotional state remained an impenetrable, unperceivable void, Flinx’s was not. Reading her master’s concern and anxiety, if not that of his assailant, the minidrag rested on his shoulder, alert and fully awake.
“You may as well put down the gun,” Flinx murmured. “If she senses a threat directed toward me, she’ll respond immediately. She moves too fast to hit, and you’d only get off one shot before…” He shrugged. “I’ve been a spectator to the consequences too many times already in my life, and I’d just as soon not have
to be one again.”
“Beautiful, just beautiful.” His voice full of genuine admiration, Vashon stared at Pip. “I’ve only seen one or two before, and then only as life-images. An Alaspinian minidrag.”
The other man’s response was not at all what Flinx had expected, and he was suddenly wary.
“You know what she is,” he said slowly. “If you know that, then you know what she can do.”
“Of course, of course! Such deadliness packed into such a graceful, perfect form! The lines of the creature, the evolution required to produce such a spectacular end product, the radiant colors: it is more beautiful in person than I could ever have imagined!”
While Pip was used to responding to an emotional threat directed toward her master, she detected none in the room in front of her or in the one behind her. Flinx continued to emit concern, and rising concern at that, but though her heightened senses repeatedly scanned the immediate vicinity, she could perceive nothing that could be construed as a danger. While unease oozed from Flinx, she could not sense a cause. Certainly not from the other human present, who emitted no emotions at all. Folding her wings against her sides, she settled down on Flinx’s shoulder. Plainly, there was nothing here to be concerned about, her master’s apprehension notwithstanding.
As soon as Pip collapsed her wings, and by extension any concern she might have for her master, Flinx retreated back into the secondary sleeping room, slamming and locking the door behind him. He had expected the flying snake to react, if necessary, to his own alarm. Or, failing that, to the first uncontrolled trappings of hostility from Vashon. But Vashon had not raised a weapon in his direction. He had only “attacked” an empty bed. It now struck Flinx that if he could not sense antagonism, or anything else from Vashon, then neither could Pip. She might sense her master’s fear, but be unable to locate its cause.
Vashon’s lack of perceptible emotion effectively neutralized her.
Bursting out into the lamplit corridor, he accelerated in the direction of the building’s main entrance. Like much of the City Hall complex of interlinked structures, the section that was home to the quarters reserved for visiting dignitaries was constructed of finely worked stone. He knew he should find and alert Wiegl, but first he had to get away from Vashon. On his jouncing left shoulder, the rear third of her diamondback-patterned body curled securely around his upper arm, a sleepy Pip rode in evident contentment, kept awake only by Flinx’s continued unease.
If he could just get clear of the visitors’ building, across the small courtyard with its fountain of dancing feynaks, and into the Administration area, he would find company in the form of the Leeth’s night shift. He had reason to doubt that Vashon, seeking to preserve his position beside the Hobak, would shoot him down in front of multiple witnesses. Especially after na Broon had shown interest in his new visitor’s proposal. And it would give him time to think—in the face of Pip’s striking lack of interest in Vashon, he needed time to think.
Too much thinking in concert with racing for the exit did not leave him with sufficient awareness to dodge the Larian coming around the near corner. Though more than adequate for the natives, who possessed much better night vision than humans, the hallway lighting was inadequate to reveal the female worker who was moving fast in his direction. The resulting collision sent both of them to the floor, limbs awkwardly entangled as a startled Pip struggled to unfold her wings and free herself.
From far up the corridor an angry Vashon struggled to compose a suitable command in singspeech strong enough to jolt the night worker out of his line of fire.
“Move away from him,” Vashon sang, “and spare yourself, from my line of fire, at the intruder!”
At the singspeech, Pip’s head came up. Her eyes locked on Vashon as her wings flared. Simultaneously and for the first time, a surge of enmity filled Flinx. It came from Vashon. The first emotion he had been able to perceive from the man.
Because, Flinx quickly determined, it had been released through the singspeaking.
He straightened. Unarmed but not undefended, he stared down the hallway at the other human. Nearby, the Larian with whom he had collided lay on her back, her eyes darting from one offworlder to the other.
Flinx could move fast, but not as fast as a burst from a neuronic pistol. The question was, could Pip move fast enough?
He had one chance. Taking a few steps toward Vashon, he began to singspeak.
“To bring you back, it was requested, preferably alive, but with alternatives open.”
Vashon simply smiled and shook his head sadly. “Sending one was a foolish decision, a sad decision, one made without consideration, for my abilities. Now I will kill you, before another step you take, since unnecessary talking, is not my style.” He started to take careful aim with the pistol.
The emotions and intentions writ plain in his singspeech were all Pip needed.
She sped toward him. In the confines of the corridor her room for maneuvering was limited. Vashon got off a single shot. It only grazed her left wing, but it was enough to destabilize her and send her fluttering to the floor.
Flinx slammed into him before Vashon could unleash a second, killing burst.
Though shorter, Vashon was heavy and muscular. In hand-to-hand combat he might have expected his experience to prevail. But Flinx had received training from Bran Tse-Mallory and was not about to be easily dispatched. One graceful move allowed him to disarm his emotionless opponent. At the same time, Vashon struck out with a knee that caught Flinx in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. This allowed Vashon to sidle sideways, grip the younger man’s arm in both hands, and wrench. Pain lanced through Flinx as his shoulder was dislocated. Sensing victory, Vashon prepared to roll on top of his opponent and bring both linked hands down on Flinx’s throat in a killing compression.
Down the corridor, the Larian with whom Flinx had collided rose to her feet. Her epidermal layer split wide open. Skin and fur fell away to left and right. What stood revealed as she drew her own weapon was a diminutive human female. She was completely hairless, down to her permanently depilated eyebrows. From neck to toe she was clad in a bodysuit of smooth, pure blackness interrupted only by the silver devices that shone on her belt and skullcap. These sported stylized skulls and crossbones.
Free now of the encumbering camouflage of the simsuit, the Qwarm came running toward the two entangled men while taking aim with her own weapon.
“Get clear of him, you idiot! I can’t get a clean shot!”
17
■ ■ ■
It was the last thing Flinx might have expected to see, and it made no sense. None. How could the Assassins’ Guild still be after him? Why would they still be after him? The Guild did not hold grudges. That he had escaped their attention previously should have no bearing any longer. Absolute professionals, they worked only for hire. Those who had originally hired them to kill him, the members of the Order of Null, were no more. They had been no more for some time now. So, if not the now-vanished Order, who would pay to see him dead? Not his half sister Mahnahmi, who as far as he knew still dwelled in an appropriate facility authorized to cope with her condition of infantile regression. Not the current AAnn government, with whose Emperor and imperial bureaucracy he had established an understanding and a formal relationship.
Then…who?
Still on the ground desperately grappling with Vashon, he thrust out at her with his talent and found, not unexpectedly, nothing. Among all the members of his kind that he had encountered, among all with whom he’d had dealings both benign and hostile, only the Qwarm had the ability as a group to thoroughly mask their emotions. In the course of a previous encounter, that unexpected revelation had nearly cost him his life. Ironically, he had been saved by the intervention of the same thranx, Sylzenzuzex, who had persuaded him to take up his present task on Largess. But she wasn’t here now, wasn’t going to burst through a portal armed and ready to protect him. He had no other weapon with which to defend himself save a small
Secun vibraknife and his unique ability, and the latter was utterly useless against someone devoid of emotion.
At the same time, the bulk of his attention was necessarily occupied by Vashon. The other man did not roll clear in response to the call from the assassin. Instead, ready to deliver a lethal blow himself, he glared down at Flinx, his eyes wide, preparing to kill.
It was, finally, the one feeling he was unable to suppress.
Leaping into the emotional gateway thus opened, Flinx struck out with everything he had. For an instant, Vashon’s bunched-together fists hovered above his head. They trembled slightly as a storm of emotional discord raged through the man seated on Flinx’s torso. Then, tormented beyond measure, assailed by such guilt and fear and nightmarish terror as he had never before experienced, Vashon fell backward and off the younger man. Blasted into a coma from which he would never recover, he lay whimpering on the stone floor.
His head throbbing from the effort, Flinx struggled to turn and direct another emotional blow against the Qwarm who had come up behind him. But she was completely controlled and evinced nothing in the way of feeling. There was no way in for him, no ready avenue of attack. And his head hurt, hurt worse than it had in years. The effort of putting Vashon down had exhausted him.
Turning, he looked over to where Pip was struggling to get airborne. Meeting his eyes, she came slithering toward him. He tried to urge her up, to at least raise her head, to fight on his behalf. To spit.
Pip ignored the Qwarm as she continued to come toward him.
Gazing down at him, the diminutive assassin looked peeved. His eyes widened as he recognized the weapon she was holding: a Hornet VI. At this range…
Goodbye, Clarity. No one escapes death forever….At least if he could not be with her, he was with Pip.
Strange Music Page 26
