“Peripherals—targeting helmets, used to automatically direct firepower when the enemy is not using scramblers; radiation sensors; jetpacks for aerial warfare; acid twisters to splatter a room with burning liquids.
“Experience. A Paratwa assassin has been born and bred for one reason—to kill human beings, as swiftly and as surely as possible. Its whole life has been dedicated to perfecting the means for accomplishing this task. Each creature has trained by destroying hundreds of slave fighters.
“Speed. Possibly its single greatest advantage. Genetically modified neuromuscular systems enable faster reaction times. Training from birth enhances these inbred abilities.”
Gillian stopped, studied Rome’s uncertainty, played on it.
“According to your own figures, on the average each Paratwa killed over twenty thousand humans. And that ratio occurred in a society that was infinitely more prepared for violence than yours.”
Haddad’s scalp seemed to be throbbing. “The Colonies are not totally helpless—we have thrusters. We have crescent webs too, although their use is highly restricted.”
“It does not matter,” Gillian said calmly. “Even if you could match the Paratwa weapon for weapon, you would lose.”
He spoke with such certainty that Rome felt convinced, even while a more rational part of him was generating arguments.
Haddad spoke bitterly. “And what is it that makes you so uniquely effective against these creatures?”
Gillian looked at Nick, wanting the midget to answer for him. It’s strange how blind we can be to our own natures. I don’t know why I have such skills. An accident of birth, I suppose. I do know that when my parents were killed and I first picked up that Cohe, the wand felt as if it were part of me. I understood the way it was meant to be used.
Nick gazed at the ceiling. “Gillian is a rare combination of instincts and acquired skills. He is a one-in-a-billion freak.”
A freak. Yes, that felt true. I am a freak. His guts began to ache. He shuddered.
Rome frowned at Gillian, equating his pained grimace with Nick’s casual use of the word “freak.”
Gillian perceived the Councilor’s error. It amused him. He laughed, suppressing his pain. All three of them looked at him strangely.
“It’s rather funny,” he lied. “Here we sit, calmly discussing what must be done about a hole in the roof. Meanwhile, we are getting soaked by the rain.”
Nick clapped his hands. “Say, I like that! A great analogy!”
Rome spoke soberly. “I’m still inclined to agree with the Pasha. You’ve got to stay within E-Tech.”
Nick hopped down from the desk. “All right, let’s suppose we accept your restrictions. What about that Cohe wand you’re holding in the archives?”
“If I give you this wand, I will be violating a deep trust.”
“If you don’t,” Nick pointed out, “a lot more colonists are going to die.”
Suspicion lined the Pasha’s face. “What happened to Gillian’s Cohe?”
Nick answered. “We thought it best not to go into stasis with a wand. You can understand our trepidation. If we had been accidentally awakened and it was discovered that we possessed a Cohe ... Well, let’s just say we wouldn’t have won any popularity contests.” He grinned brightly. “Besides, we always assumed that when we woke up, there would be Cohes available. We never suspected that E-Tech would manage to almost totally eliminate the most devastating hand weapon ever designed.”
“And now,” said Haddad, “you expect us to simply hand over one of these weapons to you. I find that rather naive.”
Nick winked at the Pasha. “Midgets can be rather shortsighted.”
Gillian chuckled.
Haddad turned to Rome, spoke coldly. “Even if it were not a violation of our own laws, we could not give such a weapon to a man who has displayed such ruthlessness.”
Rome had made the decision yesterday. “I’ll have the Cohe wand brought up from our vaults. The weapon, however, will remain within this building.” He avoided Haddad’s wrathful stare. “In return, you will work within our organization. You may train your team but you will also exercise a little more restraint in dealing with our people. Agreed?”
Nick bowed gracefully and smiled. Gillian’s pose was unreadable.
The midget rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere. So! How about a bit of good news to cheer you up?”
“We’re listening,” said Rome.
Nick pointed at Haddad. “Daddy let us go to Lamalan early this morning like we were promised. Of course, he sent six security people with us to make us behave, but it was still a nice trip. We found these.”
Nick reached behind his back and withdrew a pair of tiny black marbles from one of his pockets. He displayed them in his open palm.
The Pasha’s eyes widened. “You lied to my people, told them you found nothing!”
Nick dropped the marbles on the desk. They did not roll; they stuck to the surface. “We wanted to save our little discovery for you.”
Rome examined the tiny spheres. “What are they? Bugs?”
“You got it! Audio transceivers with dynamic tracking. These little suckers can lock onto, amplify, and transmit a whisper at two hundred feet.”
Haddad picked one up, studied it with a frown. “What’s their transmission range?”
“About half a mile.”
“I assume they’re deactivated,” said the Pasha.
“I certainly hope so!”
“The Paratwa planted these?” Rome asked.
Nick nodded. “At Paula Marth’s. One of the bugs was in her hallway and the other in her gallery—stuck to the bottom of an antique ice cutter.” He grinned. “Kinda makes you wonder, huh?”
Haddad spoke carefully. “You’re saying that the Paratwa secretly planted these bugs when it visited Paula Marth on the day of the killing. It wanted to find out if she knew anything.”
Nick corrected. “It wanted to learn whom she would call to report Bob Max’s murder.”
“Then she was set up to be a witness,” Haddad concluded.
Gillian forced patience. They’re so slow.
“Of course!” snapped Nick. “After the murder, the creature probably monitored the bugs from the nearby forestlands. Paula Marth called E-Tech and the Paratwa passed that information on to its master.”
Rome felt his stomach clench. A sense of foreboding came over him. “And the next day, Artwhiler and Drake knew all about the murder.”
“Yup,” said Nick. “Sounds to me like whoever is running this Paratwa wants to discredit E-Tech.”
“Then Paula Marth is innocent,” mused Haddad. “She was telling the truth—she did not inform anyone else about the killing.”
“Probably not.”
Rome shook his head, tried to make his guts unwind. “These bugs, we have nothing like them. In fact, I doubt if we even have data on how to construct one.”
Nick grinned. “They’re state-of-the-art technology—pre-Apocalyptic, of course. Probably the plans for them are hidden somewhere down in your data archives. Oh, and another thing. These bugs are self-disintegrating. Another few days and they would have begun to decompose. Handy little feature for eliminating evidence.”
Rome asked, “These bugs ... the Paratwa must have known we would discover them.”
Nick squirmed back onto the desktop. “Not necessarily. The bugs were well hidden. We found them only because we had a good idea of what we were looking for.”
The Pasha raised his eyebrows. “You knew her house had been bugged?”
“Gillian suspected the Paratwa did not visit Paula Marth just to discuss the antique business. The murder of Bob Max was well orchestrated.”
Rome’s stomach discomfort increased, yet refused to become outright fear—something that sank teeth into you. The sensation more closely resembled a feeling he had once experienced as a small child attending his grandfather’s funeral. It was a helplessness that could never be fully ackn
owledged. Iceberg agony, Angela called it. Always nine-tenths submerged.
The Pasha, too, was upset by the discovery of the bugs. Rome could tell by the way he chose his words.
“It seems unlikely that the Costeaus are controlling this creature. They would not go to such trouble just to discredit E-Tech. It is not their way.”
Rome felt himself tense. La Gloria de la Ciencia? They might go to such lengths to hurt E-Tech. Could this incident be somehow related to Drake’s actions at Council?
I’m grasping at the wind. Right now, there were simply too many possibilities. He opened his desk drawer, withdrew a small vial, and swallowed an antacid pill.
Nick asked, “Have you learned anything more about Bob Max?”
Rome raised an eyebrow at Haddad. The Pasha scowled. He obviously had information that he did not want to share with Nick and Gillian.
Haddad spoke coldly. “Bob Max spent most of his time away from Lamalan, but as yet, we haven’t learned much about his lifestyle. We do know he was known among the smugglers. And our deepthroaters intimate that Max was friendly with many pirate clans.”
“But you have no direct links between Bob Max and the Paratwa,” stated Gillian.
“Not yet.”
“Did Bob Max have any other connections?” asked Nick. “Political or business friends, maybe?”
“He made fair-sized donations to several political organizations over the past five years. A group urging stronger trade barriers between Colonies and a committee fighting restoration projects on Sirak-Brath were the main ones.” Haddad paused. “It is quite obvious why a smuggler would consider such causes important.”
“Anything else?” Gillian asked.
Haddad shrugged. “He was apparently rather wealthy, although we have not as yet been able to unravel all of his financial dealings. He seems to have enjoyed antique collecting for its own sake and had investments in several major galleries throughout the Colonies. He was a lifelong member of the Church of the Trust—a true believer, as they say.”
Nick withdrew a strip of white licorice from his tail of pockets. He slid the candy between his teeth. “Did Max associate with any particular pirate clans?” Half of the licorice dangled from his mouth, swaying as he spoke.
The Pasha nodded. “Max had most of his dealings with two of the clans, the Alexanders and the Cornells.”
Nick stared at Gillian but directed his words at Rome.
“These Costeaus—as I understand it, they’re mainly descendants of the original workers who built the Colonies?”
Rome nodded. “Two centuries ago, when the Colonies were being settled, everyone had to be cleared by E-Tech immigration. It was always assumed that these hundreds of thousands of space workers would return to Earth when their construction efforts were completed. But then came the Apocalypse. The workers couldn’t return to the planet.”
Nick said, “Even your most recent history files do not seem to delve into much detail about this matter. It’s very strange.”
Haddad folded his arms. “The Colonies—and E-Tech—made a terrible mistake two centuries ago. No one is proud of it.”
Nick continued looking at Gillian. “Rather than implementing some means for slowly phasing these space workers into colonial society, the powers-that-be rejected them utterly. Most of the workers were banned from settling in any of the cylinders.”
Rome recognized that this discussion was for Gillian’s benefit and added: “When these workers visited the Colonies, they were forced to carry identity badges. Their travel was restricted.”
Gillian held up his hand. “You created a second-class citizenry. There are many historic parallels.”
Rome nodded. “The Colonies feared that Paratwa might be hidden among the workers. Some of these construction people put up with a lifetime of prejudice so that their descendants might become full-fledged colonists. But most of them rejected second-class citizenship. Thousands of their shuttles were converted into homes. They adopted a sort of gypsy lifestyle, wandering from colony to colony, seeking temporary work. Many dove down to the Earth’s surface, learned to hunt for uncontaminated artifacts that could be sold on the black market. A few of the bolder ones even attacked Intercolonial transports, boarded unarmed vessels, robbed and murdered crews. That sort of thing ended more than a century ago, but by then the Costeaus were firmly linked with piracy.
“These workers divided into clans. Some clans constructed their own cylinders—smaller and cruder than the Colonies, of course, but livable just the same. Other clans chose a particular colony and moved their shuttles into permanent orbit. A low-tech industrial cylinder—Sirak-Brath—attracted an inordinate number of Costeaus. Today, that colony is the hotbed, a sort of unofficial haven for them.”
Gillian understood why Nick had initiated this line of discussion. “Interesting,” he said, with a trace of boredom in his voice.
Nick popped down from the desk. “Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time. I want to spend the rest of this afternoon going through some more of your archives.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “’cause tonight, if Daddy gives me the car, I’m going out skirtchasing!”
Haddad raised an eyebrow. “Wait for me in the outer office. I’ll be along shortly.”
Nick clicked his heels together and thrust his right arm upward at a forty-five degree angle. It was an odd salute, Rome thought.
Haddad waited until they left. “My initial feeling remains unchanged. We should return them to stasis.”
Rome leaned back in the chair. Despite doubts, he believed that Nick and Gillian would prove useful. “They did find those audio bugs,” he argued.
“It is a mistake to give them the Cohe wand. Not only is this a serious violation of our own policies, but if Gillian is truly as capable with this weapon as claimed, the end result could be disastrous. I do not trust their motives.”
“I don’t either,” Rome said. “But at this point, I fear the Paratwa more than I fear them. I am convinced that Artwhiler will not be able to contain this creature.”
Haddad allowed his bitterness to show. “And what makes you certain we can contain Gillian?”
That was a good question. Rome wished that he had an equally good answer. “You have them under constant surveillance?”
“Of course. The subcutaneous bugs are operating perfectly. But that merely tells us where they are—not what they are doing.”
“It will have to suffice.” Rome’s mind was made up.
The Pasha swallowed his disagreement. “Do you wish me for anything else?”
“Yes. I’m calling an immediate meeting of the advisory staff. I want all our top people present, yourself included.”
“Troubles at Council?”
Rome nodded thoughtfully. Troubles everywhere.
O}o{O
The Lion of Alexander was a withered old man with fluffed gray hair and a face rippled by age lines. He sat on the arm of a well-preserved davenport; drawing pad on his lap, black pencil clutched tightly in a scarred palm. The silence of his chamber was broken only by the faint scratching of soft lead on paper.
Paula remained at the doorway with her son—as ordered—while Grace and Aaron approached the old man.
The chamber appeared to be a combination of bedroom and study. A small, linen-covered cot lay nestled against the wall several feet behind the davenport. Above the cot, a braided silver stick thrust outward, spread wings, became a dove with a band of fresh red roses clutched in its beak. Two corners held electronic equipment: one a communications console, the other an ancient assembly of music synthesizers. The carpet was tan shag and faintly tattered. A small mahogany desk—an antique worth thousands—sat alone in the center of the room.
Jerem wore a mask of boredom. Under better circumstances, a visit to a pirate colony would have been a momentous event for him. But since yesterday, when she had told him about his father, he had withdrawn into himself, becoming resistant to Paula’s gentle attempts at conversation an
d showing little interest in the oddities of the tiny apartment where Aaron had imprisoned them for the past twenty hours. Even on the few occasions when he had spoken to her, she detected the strain in his voice; a deep anger festering beneath the surface.
He’ll get over it, Paula thought. I won’t blame myself for trying to spare my son pain. I did the right thing by not telling him who his real father was.
Doubt remained.
Grace and Aaron entered into a whispered conversation with the old man. Voices rose and fell, and although words remained unclear, it was obvious that a disagreement was taking place. Finally, the siblings bowed slightly and retreated.
Aaron’s tattoo rippled as he addressed Paula. “The Lion wishes to see you and your son alone.” The disapproval in his voice told her what the argument had been about.
Grace’s dark eyes flashed. “Do nothing to harm him, do nothing to disturb his peace. Displease him in the slightest and you’ll answer to me!”
The pirates left the room, closing the door behind them. Paula acknowledged a tinge of fear; she and Jerem were now alone with a man who ruled a Costeau empire.
The Lion’s voice was strangely youthful. “Come. Sit beside me.”
She chose a spot on the far side of the davenport. The old man chuckled as she sat down.
“I have been deodorized and I do not bite, nor scratch. Please—sit beside me.”
Paula slid closer, maintained a discreet distance between their bodies. Jerem sat down on her other side.
“I apologize for not being here yesterday to meet you when you arrived. Such was my intention, but duties required me to be out of colony.”
Paula squirmed on the soft cushion, avoided the old man’s gaze.
“Do you like it?” asked the Lion, holding up his pencil drawing.
Happy children, with meticulously detailed faces, frolicked on a grassy field. A forest of pines rose behind the children and, far in the distance, ice-capped mountains probed high into a sharp blue sky. No colony could boast such a panorama.
Paula did not have to lie. “It’s beautiful.”
Liege-Killer Page 17
