And now Sagan was beginning to understand why. He began to transmit the collected data back to Admiral Dixter. Sagan presumed the "ghosts" would allow him to do this, wouldn't jam his signal. The time for—the need for—secrecy must be nearly at an end.
Transmission concluded, he sank back in the pilot's chair, with its cracked plastic and exposed bits of foam rubber, and stared unseeing at the flashing numbers, the instruments that were continuing to gather and spew forth data. The discovery, its terrifying import, the sudden rush of understanding as piece after piece of die puzzle locked into place, overwhelmed him with its enormity.
Warlord Derek Sagan was not a man to be easily overwhelmed. He rubbed his palm, which had begun to itch and burn, moved his fingers to touch the starjewel that he wore, once again, around his neck.
A light began to flash on the console. Communication was being established with the planet. Blips on his screen indicated the presence of several spaceplanes, probably escorts.
"Welcome, my lord Sagan," said the voice, a voice he'd heard often in his dreams and thus had no difficulty recognizing, "welcome to Vallombrosa—Valley of Ghosts."
Ghosts, indeed.
Chapter Six
Places you are tied down to—none. People with a hold on you—none. Men you step aside for—none.
The Magnificent Seven
The hotel on Ceres was high class, one of those four-star joints in the galaxy guidebooks. It catered to off-worlders, too, apparently, Xris noted, standing in line at the reception desk. The enormous lobby—replete with a fountain of dancing water adorned by musical metal spheres that soared and dipped in the air above the fountain—could have been used as a Catalog for Life-forms in the Milky Way.
Some sort of convention was taking place, judging by the name tags plastered on the lapels, scales, skin, and fur of the breasts, heads, feet, and tails of the individuals walking, creeping, or crawling through the lobby and adjacent meeting areas and ballrooms.
No one, except a harried-looking bellman, gave Xris so much as a raised eyebrow—unusual for the cyborg, whose acid-burned face and metal body parts, with their flashing LED lights, generally rated stealthy sideways glances, outright suspicious glares, or pitying, averted eyes. And the bellman, once he had been convinced that Xris had only one piece of luggage and that he would carry it himself, disdainfully turned his attention to the next, presumably tipping, customer.
"Single room. Name of Xris," said the cyborg when he reached the desk.
Another indication of a high-class joint—real live clerks. None of this stick-your-card-in-a-machine-and-get-a-room-for-the-night business.
The clerk handed over a key (an antique, honest-to-God key), along with the information that the room was paid for and all expenses would be covered.
Xris took the key and shouldered his way through the crowd in the lobby. His room was located on the ground floor—as he always specified. He never knew when he might have to makea quick exit and at such times it was damn inconvenient to stand around waiting for the elevator.
He entered his room, gave it the once-over for listening devices, hidden cams, explosives—the usual precautions. Finding it clean, in more ways than one, he opened his luggage case, took out a bottle of jump-juice, poured a jigger full into one of the water glasses, and continued his inspection.
Taking care to keep from being seen, he drew aside the window curtain. French doors opened onto a small, walled-off patio. Beyond that was an ornamental garden, graced with fountains and fancifully pruned shrubbery. In the distance, on the horizon, he could see the tops of mountains, bathed with a soft pink twilight tinge. The view was spectacular, but Xris wasn't noticing such things as mountains or flower beds. He was considering escape routes, possible sites for an ambush, hiding places for eavesdroppers or more sinister types.
The room appeared secure and was in a good, though not great, location. Xris was pleased, not particularly surprised. He'd done enough work for John Dixter to know that the admiral would be careful about such details. It was simply that the location for this meeting was so damn odd. Why rendezvous on Ceres? The message hadn't specified, but then, it wouldn't. Special code. Highest priority. Payment already deposited in his account. Xris wasn't even certain it was Dixter who had called him, yet who else would could it be?
Either Dixter ... or the king.
Xris grinned at that one, shook his head. Taking out a twist, he stuck the black and noxious cigarette in his mouth and lit it. A swallow of jump-juice, then he yanked off his long-range weapons hand, packed it away in the specially designed compartment in his cybernetic leg. Taking out another weapons hand—this one designed for short-range work, tight, close quarters, all noise kept to a minimum—he attached it to his arm, checked it over to make sure all systems were operational.
He was sitting comfortably in his chair, drinking the jump-juice, when a particularly large and raucous group of conventioneers tramped past his room. He might have paid no attention except that his acute, enhanced hearing caught the faint sound of soft footfalls, perhaps using the others for cover, stop outside his door. There was silence a moment, then a knock—a swift, sharp rap.
"I didn't order room service," Xris called.
Nothing. No response.
Xris shifted slightly in his chair.
The knock was repeated.
"I said, I didn't order room service." He raised the volume.
The correct response was, "Maintenance. Here to fix your vid."
The knock was repeated again, more sharply, peremptorily. It was beginning to sound irritated.
Xris adjusted his augmented vision in an attempt to see through the door, but the door and wall were shielded to prevent just such an occurrence. This was a high-class joint. He was glad Dixter was paying the bill.
Xris concentrated on his other senses. He didn't hear anything that sounded threatening—the whine of power packs charging up, or the slight snick made by the loading of a bolt gun. The silence meant next to nothing, however. The poisoner, Raoul, for example, could very quietly kiss you to death.
"Who is it?" Xris tried, for variety.
Not moving from where he sat—at an angle to the door, on the opposite side of the room from the door—Xris shifted his glass from his right hand to his left—his weapons hand. Propping his feet up on the bed, he leaned back comfortably in his chair.
"I am not room service. Let me in!" demanded a voice, with a hint of anger.
Xris was more curious now than worried. No hired gun worth the price of a bolt would stand outside his victim's room beating on the door. Yet this was obviously some kind of setup. An agent from Dixter or the king would have known the proper code response.
"Come on in, then," Xris called, hitting the manual remote control. "I've unlocked it."
Anyone intent on killing him would have to first locate him in the room, react to the fact that he was seated and not standing, then shoot at an angle—and all the while Xris would have the killer in his sights, in easy range of a deadly little poisoned dart that could be fired from the third knuckle of the cyborg's weapon's hand.
The door slid open. A woman entered.
She was short, for a human female, dressed in a smart black suit, expensive, well tailored, with a long, fingertip-length black jacket and a knee-length skirt revealing remarkable legs. She wore a black, wide-brimmed hat, trimmed in a black lace veil that covered her face. The ends of the veil were wrapped around her neck. Her hands were encased in soft black kid leather gloves.
The door shut behind her. The woman remaining standing just inside it, the veiled face turned expectantly toward Xris. She said no word, and it took Xris a moment to figure out what the hell was going on.
She was waiting expectantly for him to stand up, to rise when she entered the room.
He knew, then, who she was, if not how or why. Even though her face was hidden by the veil, there was no mistaking that dignified, regal stance, with the head slightly thrown back, the chin tilted upward. Things
began to make sense, even as they didn't.
Xris thought he deserved a moment to recover from the shock. At length, setting down his drink (and deactivating the dart in his hand), he rose to his feet.
"Your Majesty," he said.
The queen appeared not displeased to be recognized. She unwrapped the veil from her face with graceful, deliberate motions, took off the hat, and carefully placed it upon the foot of the bed. She did not glance in the mirror—as nine out of ten women Xris knew would have, to pat their hair back in place-but seemed to take it for granted that she would look extraordinary, whether her hair was mussed or not.
And she did . . . look extraordinary.
Xris was impressed. He had seen Astarte, queen of the galaxy, on the vids, of course, but he had always figured that the cams were careful to capture her good side or that she'd hired a damn fine makeup artist. This woman was all over good sides and, as far as Xris could tell (and he'd become something of an expert, from hanging around Raoul), the queen wore very little makeup. The rose dusting on the high cheekbones, the coral-brushed lips, the port-wine eyes did not come from over the cosmetic counter.
"You're not surprised I knew who you were," Xris commented, to see what she would say.
"Of course not. You must have deduced that I would be the only person—other than His Majesty—capable of retrieving data on you from the classified files." The queen was pulling off her gloves with the same careful, deliberate motions. "Admit-tedly, I do not have security clearance; I am a royal consort and therefore have no military command status. However, it was quite simple for me to obtain access to .. . certain computers. And then it was only a matter of time and patience before I found what I was seeking.
"There, sir. Have I supplied you with enough information to satisfy any doubts? I trust the answer is yes," she went on, before Xris could reply, "because I won't tell you any more. I may have need to resort to this stratagem again and I wouldn't want you to spoil it for me."
She laid the gloves on the table, stood regarding Xris with a forthright, direct look that was cool, businesslike, and extremely disconcerting. She barely came to the cyborg's shoulder. His mechanical hand could have crunched her like a bug, yet she obviously had no doubt who was in command of the situation. And, according to her, it wasn't Xris.
He found his voice, which seemed to have seized up on him, and shrugged.
"It's not up to me to say whether Your Majesty does or doesn't have the right to poke around in your husband's classified files, but I would be interested in knowing how you happened to go looking for me. Or did Your Majesty just start at the bottom of the alphabet and pick the first name you came across?"
"A fair question," she said after a moment's thought and cool appraisal. "You may sit down." She made a regal gesture. "Don't smoke."
Xris had taken a twist out of his pocket. Now he looked at it, looked at her, then stuck the twist back in his pocket again. The queen walked over to the window. Parting the curtains, she glanced out.
"There's no one out there, Your Majesty, unless you were followed," Xris offered.
"No, I wasn't followed," said the queen. "I'm my mother's daughter, after all."
This meant nothing to Xris, beyond the fact that she said it with a hard and bitter edge to her voice. She let the curtain fall, turned back to face him.
"I heard His Majesty speak of you. He told me the story of how the Lady Maigrey hired you and your team. How you went with her into that terrible moon in the Corasian galaxy. How you risked your own life to save the life of Tusca. His Majesty's best friend. You helped the Lady Maigrey. She trusted you. It occurred to me, when I needed help, that I could trust you, as well."
The wine-colored eyes lifted to meet his. She was breathtaking. Xris would have taken off his cloak—had he owned a cloak—thrown it in the mud at her feet. Hell, he would have thrown himself into the mud at her feet, begged her to walk on him. But he reminded himself sternly that business was business and he'd better keep this on a business footing—which meant standing on his own two.
"Look, Your Majesty, the Lady Maigrey and I had a deal, a business deal, a contract—"
"You will be well paid, of course," said Astarte, with a slight smile. "I regret that I cannot give you a written contract, but there must be no record of our involvement. I am going to be asking you to do certain things and you will not know precisely why, nor will I be able to tell you. Is this going to be a problem?"
She was cool, very cool. This was some sort of test and "yes" wasn't the right answer.
"So long as you're not going to ask me to do anything that would make me a traitor," Xris said bluntly. "I live by my own rules, generally; I'm my own boss. I've been known to bend the law when I thought it needed bending, or break it on occasion—"
"Such as this last trip you made across enemy lines?" Astarte asked, interrupting. "To rescue your wife, wasn't it? Did you succeed? I hope you did. That was a strong point in your favor."
Xris stared at her, his brain feeling the way his body felt when his battery pack shut down—helpless, paralyzed. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. The silence was broken instead by a series of small beeps. Lights flashed—his weapons arm, undergoing a routine systems check.
"I'm sorry." Astarte said, not even glancing at it. "I shouldn't have interrupted you. You were saying?"
Xris had no idea. All he could remember was the substance. "I wont do anything to hurt the king," he said harshly. "He's all right I think he's doing an okay job. If you have anything like that in mind, sister you better pick up your hat and gloves and start walking."
He was rough on her, purposefully so. Her face flushed, but not in shame.
"I am not your sister. Nor will you address me as such." Astarte's voice lowered; she looked almost sad. "What I hire you to do will not harm His Majesty. You might say, in a way, it will save his life. Or what he values more than life."
She said the last in a soft tone, so soft only the cyborg's augmented hearing could have registered it. She began to droop, wilt like a cut rose. Had Xris's arms been flesh and blood instead of metal, he might have taken her into those arms, patted her on the back, told her to have a good cry. Had she been flesh and blood, instead of queen of the galaxy, she might have done so.
As it was, Xris shifted uncomfortably, began fiddling unnecessarily with the controls on his cybernetic leg.
She asked, in the same low tone, "Did you rescue your wife?"
"Yes," Xris said briefly.
Astarte waited a moment, giving him a chance to add details, something he'd never do as long as his artificial heart kept pumping what passed for blood through his body. But he did wonder what had prompted the question, which must have been tripping on the heels of whatever thoughts had gone before it.
He couldn't begin to guess what she had in mind. If he'd been watching the vids, reading the mags, keeping up with the latest gossip, he might have been able to figure it out. Too bad Raoul and the Little One weren't with him. Raoul would have known what was coming down. The Adonian could have named every garment in the queen's wardrobe, complete with accessories. And the little empath would have been invaluable. Not that it took an empath to sense that beneath the purple velvet mantle of royalty, sophistication, and power, this queen, who had—presumably—the resources of a vast empire at her disposal, was desperate, afraid, alone.
Which meant she'll pay big, he told himself. And he'd probably earn it. From what he remembered from college history class, those who got mixed up in court intrigues did not live long and happy lives. But that was a small consideration; almost no consideration at all. Xris's life wasn't so great that he'd turn down good money to prolong it.
Flesh-and-blood women. They could be grateful to a ma-chine that saved them, but never love one. No matter what they said.
He'd been silent so long that Astarte was looking anxious, apparently thinking he was still having doubts about her. "I swear to you, by the Goddess whom I serve, that I would n
ever ask you or anyone to harm the king." She laid her hand on his arm. Her flesh-and-blood hand. His cybernetic arm. "You must believe me."
Xris smiled, shrugged. "Sure. Okay. I believe you. Feels strange, doesn't it, Your Majesty?" he added. "You expect it to be warm, like normal flesh."
"I didn't," she replied. "Also included in your file were complete diagrams showing how you've been put together. I studied them extensively."
Xris regarded her thoughtfully. Maybe he'd been wrong about her. Her touch was just as cold to his sensors as his own metal. Maybe colder.
She removed her hand, slowly, and turned away. Picking up her gloves, she put them on, smoothed them out. She then lifted her wide-brimmed hat, placed it on her head—this time looking at herself in the mirror—and adjusted the veil.
"All women in mourning on this planet must hide their faces for thirty days. You have your own spaceplane. Where is it parked?"
"Spaceport Central. Gate 16-X. Look, Your Majesty, now that you know that you can trust me and I know that I can trust you, why don't you tell me what's going on?"
She tied the veil around her neck. "We will leave now, taking the monorail to the spaceport. You are a transport pilot in my employ. My lover died off-world. I have hired you to bring her body back home for burial."
"Nice cover story, but I mean, what's really going on?"
"No. Not now. Not here." She glanced around at him. "Maybe not ever. You will follow orders."
Astarte looked back at herself made a minor adjustment to the hat. "When we reach the spaceport, you will go straight to the plane. I will gain clearance for our departure, as well as our return. The journey will be short: forty-eight hours. I will make all the other arrangements, including having the coffin loaded onto your plane."
"Coffin, huh? What's in it? Are they likely to X-ray it?"
"Nothing is in it. I told you. We are going to pick up my lov-er's body. Are you ready?" She turned to face him, her head back, chin tilted.
Xris took a last, quick swallow of the jump-juice, stuck the bottle back into his luggage. Since that was the only item he'd unpacked, he was ready. He pulled a twist out of his pocket, stuck it in his mouth.
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