Liege-Killer

by Christopher Hinz

  Gillian allowed his hand to slip under his jacket. He spoke coldly. “Urikov was a good friend. I hope your name won’t have to be mentioned—in a bad light—at his funeral.”

  The driver chuckled nervously. “Hey, putty, no problem. Zell Strip, here we come!”

  The driver lowered his faceshield. The taxi accelerated.

  * * *

  “Wow!” Jerem hunched over the front seat. “There must be a thousand people.”

  The street surrounding the tavern was jammed. Local patrollers tried to keep the surging crowds away from the building, but they were outnumbered and overwhelmed. Wave after wave broke through the makeshift police barriers; each fresh assault brought cheers from the back of the crowd. Directly across the street from the tavern, a tiny third-floor balcony blossomed with a score of onlookers. Under the balcony, at the building’s entrance, two swarthy men collected tolls from a long line of people desperate to see the spectacle from a choice location.

  The driver swerved into the curb less than a block away from the commotion. Almost immediately, a pair of sleek black-and-gold cruisers skidded to a halt beside their taxi. Uniformed Guardians hit the street and began jostling through the crowds.

  “We’re parked in,” the taxi driver cursed. “Trust-damned Guardies! Sons of bitches...”

  Just as well, Gillian thought. He hopped from the vehicle. “Jerem, I want you to stay here. This man will take care of you till I return.”

  The driver’s dark glare slithered into a smile as Gillian smacked a thick wad of cash cards into his palm.

  “I’m coming with you,” Jerem began.

  “No. You stay here. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “But I wanna...”

  Gillian ignored the boy’s protests and leaned over the door to face the driver. “I’m making you responsible for the boy. I want you to keep him here.”

  The driver grinned and continued separating the cash cards into large and small denominations.

  “Hey, I’ll watch the boy all night. No problem.” He pointed to the corporate label on his helmet. “He’s in good hands!”

  Jerem frowned indignantly. “Gillian! You’re not listening.”

  Gillian wagged his finger. “I want you to stay here. This might be dangerous.”

  Jerem groaned. “That’s what everyone always says.”

  Gillian caught up with the Guardians and followed their wedge through the crowd. He made it to within twenty feet of the tavern entrance before a local patroller raised a long-handled sandram to Gillian’s chest.

  “I’m with them.”

  The patroller nodded wearily. “Sure. And I’m with God.”

  Further down the line, an ambulance crew was threading their way toward the barriers. Gillian jostled through the crowd to intercept them.

  The lead medic wore a white cloak and a professional grimace. His two companions had Port-a-pak stretchers strapped to their backs. Gillian halted in front of the trio and held up his arm.

  “Hold it! We’ve got no need for a stretcher crew here. Who called you?”

  The lead medic sighed. “Hey, we’re dispatched and we go where they send us.”

  “Did we call you or did the patrollers?” Gillian demanded.

  There was another audible sigh. “Look, I can give you our dispatch number and you can find out.”

  Gillian shook his head. “All right, never mind. Just follow me and stay close.”

  They approached the barriers. A burly patroller stepped forward. Gillian fell into step with the lead medic.

  He patted the medic on the back. “I just hope you guys brought along plenty of body bags this time. Hell, there’re pieces all over the place.”

  “Wonderful,” groaned the medic.

  The burly patroller lowered his sandram and ushered them through the barrier.

  So far, so good, Gillian thought.

  Another patroller stood guard directly outside the tavern entrance. His hands were busy playing solitaire scramcheck on a hand terminal. He barely looked up as they passed.

  Poor security, Gillian mused. He parted the beaded curtain of the inner vestibule and ushered the ambulance crew in ahead of him. The lead medic came to an abrupt halt.

  “Jesus!”

  “Wait here,” Gillian ordered. He was in luck. It appeared that none of the bodies had been moved yet.

  A mixed score of patrollers and Guardians swarmed around the victims like hungry flies. Some took measurements, others typed or dictated into hand consoles. In the center of the tavern, several Guardians were setting up an elevated microcam grid. When assembled, the grid would automatically begin rotating, scanning the entire tavern, immortalizing the carnage onto a batch of recorders.

  Guardians barked commands at one another and at the local police. Several patrollers openly grumbled at the presence of Artwhiler’s people. Gillian could spot no one who looked like he was in charge.

  He moved to the center of the tavern and stood under the microcam grid. Relaxing, he allowed his senses to absorb the brutal scene. Images washed over him—the bottom half of a man garbed like a pirate, odorant bag still hanging from his waist; a bone-shattered woman against the back wall of the open lavatory cubicle; a huge bald man with half his face burned away ...

  Firedarts? Thought intruded upon the process of assimilation. The huge man had been killed by incendiary needles. Termis rarely used firedarts.

  Gillian closed his eyes, forced awareness to retreat. When he opened his eyes again, images seemed to explode at him.

  Bodies were slumped over tables—thruster victims, hit from both sides of the tavern. A man near the bar had been pierced through the neck by a Cohe. The man was caked with blood. A crescent web had protected him and when he died, the field collapsed, bathing him in his own juices.

  Awareness refused to retreat. Gillian found himself unable to stop conceptualizing.

  Something is wrong.

  He circled the tavern, as oblivious to the Guardians and patrollers as they were to him. In the back of the room, slumped across a low table and clutching a spilled beaker of brandy, lay Urikov. Gillian had no trouble recognizing the black marketer; the Guardians had thoughtfully fastened a nametag around his wrist. A small hole had been punched through the center of his forehead with a Cohe wand.

  On the floor beside Urikov lay a decapitated giant. The head was nowhere in sight. Gillian stared at the bloody neck and frowned. For a long moment, he was unable to figure out what it was that disturbed him about the headless man. Certainly, not the decapitation itself. He had long ago accustomed himself to the aftermath of Paratwa attacks. Most of the assassins were fond of using their wands to slice ...

  Slice! Imagery sizzled into patterns; consciousness arose like smoke over a smoldering fire. A thought branded awareness, providing new direction.

  Not a Termi! The Paratwa that had decimated this tavern was not from the Terminus labs.

  His hands shook. He looked around the tavern. The pattern of the attack became clearer.

  A Termi would have sliced, but the neck wounds on the giant did not come from a slicing beam. The burns were too even. Two beams? Had the giant been caught in a cross fire of Cohe energy?

  No! That’s not it! Desperate excitement forced Gillian to his knees. He rubbed his hand across the bloody neck, noted the way the flesh seemed to have been scorched well below the spot where the beam had actually touched.

  One beam, not two! The giant had been struck by one beam, which had curled around his neck, scorched the flesh, and then, with a slight twisting of the Paratwa’s hand, crushed inward from all sides at once. The giant’s head had not been sliced off. It had been garroted.

  Within the realm of the assassins, the technique was known as the “lariat.” Only one breed of assassins had ever possessed such skill with the Cohe wand.

  Gillian stood up slowly. Tension knotted every muscle in his body.

  Again, he scanned the tavern. Focusing on details brought clarity. He understood.
The Paratwa had not come here to kill. Something had gone wrong. A fight had erupted and the assassin had been forced to defend itself. The creature had been caught by surprise, its Termi mask momentarily misplaced. Reaction had been pure, unrehearsed. A Jeek Elemental, in all its terrible glory, had been unveiled.

  And Gillian knew its name.

  The pattern of the attack came into sharp focus. Details swamped details, but a depth of clarity illuminated all the shapes, outlined all the shadows. He knew. There was no disguising the handiwork of this Jeek, not in Gillian’s mind. He had met the creature two centuries ago, in a tavern much like this one, in the heart of Boston.

  It was the same Jeek who had destroyed his team and who had almost destroyed Gillian. It was Reemul, the Ash Ock liege-killer.

  A new rhythm took hold of him, fortifying awareness, driving the agony of Catharine even deeper into his subconscious. He felt endowed with fresh purpose.

  This was no longer just a Paratwa hunt. The game had grown in stature. Unfinished business had expanded the stakes.

  He walked to the entrance and parted the beaded curtain. The lead medic grabbed his arm.

  “Hey! What are we supposed to do? Do you want us to start cleaning up?”

  Gillian shook his head. “Stay here. Someone will give you orders.”

  Without waiting for the medic to respond, he stepped out the door and headed toward the barriers. The crowd seemed to have grown even larger and more unruly. Additional patrollers had arrived. None of them interfered with Gillian’s passage.

  He ignored everyone. His thoughts were on the future.

  The liege-killer. The game had changed, but not just for Gillian. The presence of Reemul led to new possibilities that could affect all of the Colonies. It was conceivable that one or more of the Ash Ock were here.

  One of the Guardian cruisers had departed and the taxi driver had managed to free his vehicle and turn it around. Jerem sat in the front seat, giggling as the driver showed him a lewd video on the taxi’s dashboard monitor. Gillian hopped into the back.

  “Let’s go.”

  The taxi driver shrugged, turned off the monitor, and pulled away from the curb.

  “Did ya get to see anything?” Jerem asked.

  “Yes. I saw something.”

  O}o{O

  Rome was running late. Lady Bonneville’s Friday night party had been scheduled to begin at seven, and it was already close to nine-thirty. Even Angela, a fastidious believer in “fashionable tardiness,” would have raised her eyebrows. It could not be helped, though. This week’s frantic pace of events had thrown Rome into a seemingly bottomless cauldron of E-Tech staff conferences.

  A pair of armed servants met Rome as he stepped off the elevator. The men quietly ushered him to the door of the penthouse, then returned to their remote station at the end of the private corridor. Security was tight. He had counted a total of nine guards since entering the building.

  “Rome, how good of you to come.”

  Lady Bonneville wore a sweeping, low-cut gown, patterned in a striking arrangement of Scottish plaids. A set of wrist, ankle, and throat bands, formed of studded brown leather, served to visually trim her plump figure. Today, as at Wednesday’s Council meeting, her hair was colored a fashionable bluish-gray and styled into a bun.

  She escorted him through the long vestibule before he had a chance to examine the unframed Picasso mounted on the inside of the door.

  “I knew you would be one of the last to arrive,” she scolded. “And where is dear Angela?” The Lady pretended to look cross. “Shame on you for leaving your better half at home.”

  Rome smiled. “I’m afraid she’s not feeling too well this evening.” Angela generally disliked parties and frequently begged off attending.

  “Well, you’re forgiven.” The Lady beamed. “You at least had the good sense to invite that darling little friend of your son’s.”

  Rome coughed. “A friend of Antony’s?”

  “Now don’t pretend you don’t know him.” She frowned. “You did invite Mr. Nicholas, didn’t you?”

  “Mr. Nicholas. Oh, yes. Of course.”

  Lady Bonneville looked relieved. “He claimed to be a good friend of Antony’s. He said that he had dinner with you and Angela the other evening.” A smile crossed her face. “The guards did not want to let him in, but he made such a fuss that they had to call me. And when he described you and Angela and the inside of your house in such perfect detail...”

  “Yes, I had forgotten that I invited him. I wasn’t thinking.” The idea of Nick interacting with this level of Irryan society was vaguely troubling.

  The vestibule widened into the main living area, a huge three-tiered chamber overwhelmed by the clamor of multiple conversations. Lady Bonneville did not know the meaning of the word “small.” Rome estimated that there were over three hundred people in this room alone.

  Someone grabbed the Lady by the arm and led her off into the crowd. Rome sighed. He wanted to talk to Nick but realized, whimsically, that locating the midget in this overflowing mass of humanity could be difficult.

  He scanned the assemblage and spotted Drake instead. The councilor’s six-foot-six frame towered over a group of Irryan senators and trade delegates. As Rome watched, Drake gave a slow nod, apparently in response to some conversational point. The black face looked as it always did—attentive, cold, unreadable.

  Rome eased through the crowd, intending to make his way over to Drake’s group.

  “Greet-ings, Fran-co.”

  “Nu-Lin!” He smiled, fell in beside the councilor and her two companions. “As always, you look stunning.”

  White organdy ruffles cascaded from her thin shoulders, metamorphosing into an orange blouse. The long skirt was fiery red and pleated. Tiny emerald-studded rings protruded from the skin of both cheeks, accenting the implanted wafer speakers that lay directly beneath.

  “Dare I as-sume that you are ac-quaint-ed with these two gentle-men?” The blue eyes sparkled.

  Rome shook hands with the slim balding man first. “Senator Oberholtzer, how are you?”

  The senator shook his head in mock sadness. “I’m afraid not too well, Councilor. My belief system was seriously shattered upon arriving at the Lady’s abode.” He gazed at the floor and lightly stomped his foot. “Baseboards made of two-inch-thick mahogany slabs are bad enough, but these paintings...” His gaze rose to the nearest wall. “I counted two Picassos, a Renoir, a Haynie, and three Turners.” He chuckled. “I used to think I was rather wealthy.”

  Maroon robes swirled as the second man stepped forward. “Lady Bonneville does tend to redefine the meaning of excess.”

  Rome detected no criticism in the words. He took the extended hand. “Good evening, Bishop Vokir.”

  The bishop shook hands firmly, then twined his fingers and allowed his arms to hang beneath the gray sash of the robes. “Councilor Franco, it is good to see you again. It has been about ... three years? A dedication ceremony for the South Irryan shuttle terminal, as I recall.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “The Church demands it.” The bishop smiled. “I also make extensive use of diary recorders. With some sadness, I confess to the debilities of aging.”

  Senator Oberholtzer shook his head in agreement. “It’s too bad we have to grow old so fast.”

  “Fast is a rel-a-tive term. Hu-man be-ings, to an ex-tent, de-rive the-ir own life-speeds ear-ly on. An ob-jec-tive of liv-ing should be to re-duce ac-cel-er-a-tive ten-den-cies.”

  Senator Oberholtzer raised his hand to gain the attention of a passing waiter. “That sounds wonderful, Councilor. What does it mean?”

  A cryptic smile touched Nu-Lin’s lips. “The pre-A-poc-a-lyp-tics sought to ex-tend the life span of hu-man be-ings. A much more re-a-lis-tic goal would be to de-crease the life-speed. En-able a per-son to more ful-ly ex-per-i-ence each wak-ing hour.”

  The waiter, girded by a belt-tray, stood silently while Senator Oberholtzer mixed himself a gi
n and tonic. Rome noted that the senator poured very little tonic.

  “Perhaps,” Rome offered, “people don’t want to experience every waking hour.” He paused until the waiter departed. “At times, life can be boring.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Senator Oberholtzer. He raised his drink in a mock toast. “I, for one, do not seek to fully experience each moment.”

  The bishop smiled at the senator. “As a man in your position, I should probably agree. Representing Sirak-Brath certainly appears to be no easy chore.”

  Senator Oberholtzer took a long swallow and shook his head. “I was born and raised in that colony and I tell you truthfully, the place is a sewer. Everything bad you hear about Sirak-Brath is a lie—the truth is infinitely worse.”

  “The ICN fund-ing should les-sen your bit-ter-ness. Re-ju-vena-tion will take time, but I sense a day when peo-ple will feel pride in that col-o-ny.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t share your faith, Nu-Lin,” said the senator.

  “Faith, at least, can be shared,” said the bishop. “Cynics dwell alone.”

  Senator Oberholtzer laughed. “Have you ever been to Sirak-Brath, Bishop?”

  “Several times.”

  “And you still maintain it is a human colony?”

  The bishop hesitated. “There are roots in Sirak-Brath. Where there are roots, there is hope.”

  Senator Oberholtzer finished his gin with a loud gulp. “Very interesting.”

  “The Cos-teaus help breed such neg-a-tive at-ti-tudes, Sen-a-tor. It is the-ir in-flu-ence that must be re-chan-neled.”

  Rome jumped in. The threat of the Costeaus was one of the few areas where he sharply disagreed with Nu-Lin.

  “There is no solid link between the problems of Sirak-Brath and the presence of the Costeaus. At least not in the past fifty years.”

  Senator Oberholtzer glared at Rome. “No link! Tell that to the daily victims of violence in my cylinder.”

  Rome shook his head. “We must distinguish the pirates from the smugglers and gangs who commit crimes in their name.”

  “They’re all the same,” said Oberholtzer. His head scanned the room, searching for another waiter.