“Something like that.”
Rome spotted Drake several rows back, calmly observing. Throughout the room, conversations ceased as more and more guests tuned into the exchange.
Nick continued. “For reasons never completely understood by students of Paratwa psychology, many of the creatures became pedophiles.”
The redhead frowned. “That’s not nice. Children should be left alone.”
“We should all be left alone!” someone yelled. Nervous laughter erupted and was just as quickly silenced.
The redhead continued. “These Paratwa didn’t have real parents, did they?”
“No,” said Nick. “The fetuses were grown in the laboratory. Women were hired to nurse the Paratwa babies, provide the basic physical-emotional bonding necessary for infant survival. But the Paratwa were taught self-reliance at a very early age and were gradually removed from the influence of these surrogate mothers.”
“I’m curious,” inquired the lobbyist. “If one of these Paratwa consisted of a male and a female, how would it think of itself? What sex would it be?”
The redhead licked her lips.
Nick shrugged. “According to what I’ve read, the mixed Paratwa usually considered themselves male.”
“Chauvinists,” suggested Lady Bonneville.
More laughter sounded. Drake eased himself closer.
The banker turned slightly as Drake entered his field of vision. Rome watched with fascination as Drake signaled his man with a casual nod. The banker smiled and turned to Artwhiler.
“Councilor, I’ve heard it rumored that the Guardians’ Paratwa investigation will soon become a joint venture with E-Tech Security.”
Artwhiler glared. “I’ve not heard such a rumor.”
The banker caught Rome’s eye. “Perhaps Councilor Franco could offer your beleaguered troops some assistance?”
So Drake is preparing to throw his support to E-Tech. Rome kept his expression carefully neutral. The ICN is warning Artwhiler that the Council needs results. Public pressure is building. The Guardians must stop this creature.
Nu-Lin drove the point home. “I should ho-pe such mea-sures will not be nec-es-sar-y.”
Artwhiler was spared from responding. A Guardian officer squeezed into the circle and whispered something in the commander’s ear.
Artwhiler hastily excused himself and followed the officer from the room. Everyone tried to talk at once; the redhead summed up the general concern.
“I hope that awful Paratwa isn’t causing more trouble!”
Senator Oberholtzer staggered forward and pointed his finger at the balcony. “I know why the councilor’s been called away. It’s these damn pirates! Arty’s probably gonna get help, throw them the hell out.”
Everyone gazed upward. The Lion of Alexander turned from his companions and stared down at the gathering. He smiled serenely.
Lady Bonneville sighed. “Now, Senator. There is no need to direct your anger at the Costeaus.” She met the Lion’s stare. “They are here at my invitation.”
Oberholtzer brought the empty gin beaker to his lips and licked at the rim. He grinned. “My apologies, Lady.” The Senator pounded his fist against his chest as if to stop from burping. “But I’m just a simple representative of the people, a man who knows these filthy pirates for what they are.”
Tonight, thought Rome, you’re nothing but a drunken fool.
The lobbyist turned to Lady Bonneville. “I do not wish to pry, my Lady, but I am curious. Costeaus rarely come to Irrya.”
Rome observed a curious thing. Nick and Drake were staring at each other; eyes locked together as if engaged in some invisible contest of wills.
The two men ended their silent struggle as Lady Bonneville answered the lobbyist’s question.
“I invited the Costeaus here because I thought they’d enliven the party.”
The banker, his boyfriend, and several others laughed.
With a smile, the Lady continued. “Actually, for the past five years, the Costeau leaders from the major clans have had an open invitation to attend any of my parties.” She raised her head and met the Lion’s solemn gaze. “This noble gentleman is the first Costeau to ever honor that invitation. I thank him.”
The Lion of Alexander bowed slightly. He leaned over the balcony and spoke in a surprisingly youthful voice.
“Integration is a meritorious objective. We of the Alexanders welcome you.”
Oberholtzer lunged forward. “Lies! On Sirak-Brath, my life has been threatened by these pirate clans!”
The Lion met Oberholtzer’s glare, then calmly turned his back to the assemblage.
Nu-Lin, red with anger, faced the senator. “We seek so-lu-tions. La-dy Bon-ne-ville and the clan of Al-ex-an-der have helped break a bar-ri-er he-re to-night. We seek peace. Your words in-hib-it such i-de-als.”
Oberholtzer scowled. “My words don’t do justice—”
“May I have your attention!” Artwhiler announced loudly. The Guardian commander stood just inside the vestibule, hands on hips, a pair of stern Guardians at his sides. Party noise faded.
“The Guardians have just learned that there has been another Paratwa attack.”
As the room boiled with excitement, Rome turned to where Nick had been standing. The midget had vanished.
“The creature struck a tavern on the Zell Strip of Sirak-Brath. We have no further information at this time.” Artwhiler and his men spun and marched back out through the vestibule.
Partygoers formed knots of excited conversation. The redhead whined.
“Who’s going to take me home?”
Lady Bonneville patted her arm. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll arrange for one of my chauffeurs to drive you.”
Smiling, the redhead turned to the banker. “People with lots of money are so generous.”
* * *
Bishop Vokir felt worry. A nocturnal breeze whispered across the outer balcony, stirring little crescents of dust at the edge of the flowered terraces. Fourteen stories below, Artwhiler’s black-and-gold cruiser pulled out of an underground garage and silently raced onto the wide Irryan boulevard.
What has Reemul done?
The bishop watched the Guardian cruiser vanish onto a side street two blocks away. From the main party room came snatches of frenzied conversation.
“Sirak-Brath! Of all places! Maybe the Guardians will be able to seal off that sewer, trap this damn assassin.”
“The Guardians will do what they’ve been doing—nothing!”
“Sirak-Brath! Who knows? Maybe this Paratwa has found a permanent home.”
The worry emanating from his tway wafted through the bishop’s psyche, seeking the delicate threads of the interlace, urging the union of mind patterns—the awakening of Codrus. The bishop easily resisted. It would take a far stronger surge of emotion to overcome his singular awareness.
For now, the bishop would merely share his tway’s concerns.
Reemul had acted without orders. Flexing could not explain such actions—it was not yet Reemul’s time. Most likely, the Jeek had been careless.
As soon as possible, Reemul must be contacted. Codrus would have to ascertain the possible damages. Plans might have to be altered.
But the intrusion of worry was not based solely upon Reemul’s actions. The bishop’s councilor-tway had detected a potentially far more dangerous threat to the second coming.
The little man who claims friendship with Rome Franco’s son.
The bishop felt a cool breeze slap against his robes. Who is he? He passes himself off as an “amateur” expert on Paratwa history. He charms. He understands the seduction of words, is conscious of the effect he has on people.
The little man shared many traits with Rome Franco.
It would be just like Franco to introduce such a random element. By now, the councilor had to know that Reemul’s killing spree was directed at E-Tech. Franco may have even conceptualized the subtler truth: that the Paratwa attacks were designed to enhance
E-Tech’s popularity throughout the Colonies. Rome would suspect a political opponent of controlling Reemul’s rampage.
A parry in the dark. Rome Franco had brought the little man to the party in order to sow suspicions, to warn E-Tech’s invisible adversary that the game was known. But Franco could not know who that adversary was. The little man remained a weapon without aim, stabbing blindly into the night.
La Gloria de la Ciencia does not make a big enough target, the bishop realized. Franco sees through that sham.
Still, Codrus had expected that. The plan contained its minor imperfections. And no matter how well Reemul’s demise was handled, some colonists would remain suspicious. Rome Franco would be foremost among them.
Worry still emanated from his tway. Quite abruptly, Bishop Vokir realized that his entire train of thought could be in error. The possibility existed, however slight, that the little man was a stasis revivee from the past.
He could be a real enemy.
* * *
Rome said his good-byes, made his way slowly to the door. Twenty minutes after Artwhiler’s announcement, the party still throbbed with discussion of the Paratwa. Yet Rome had also detected a change in those last twenty minutes, a relaxation of tensions.
Tonight, we are all safe. Tonight, the creature is far away, on Sirak-Brath.
He wanted to corral Nick, haul him back to E-Tech headquarters. But the midget was nowhere to be found.
Nick had gone too far tonight. His actions should have been cleared with Rome beforehand.
As he opened the inner vestibule door, Rome spotted Nick out of the corner of his eye, leaning against a corridor that led to one of Lady Bonneville’s private rooms.
Towering over Nick was the Lion of Alexander. They were engaged in an intense dialogue—hands moving in tandem with indecipherable whispers. The corridor was deserted except for the two of them.
Rome felt his jaw tighten. Tomorrow, I will begin making some demands.
O}o{O
At a bank terminal near the main concourse of the port known as Kevin’s Hide, Gillian withdrew thirty-nine cash cards from one of Nick’s secret accounts.
Thirty-nine—an odd numeral. It was his signal to Nick. In one hour, the midget, if possible, would be waiting at a specific phone for Gillian’s call.
The system had worked pretty well thus far, although twice yesterday, Nick had been unable to respond. Gillian hoped that the midget was making progress with Rome and the Pasha. This convoluted form of communication was annoying, to say the least. Nick had to convince E-Tech to get fully behind their efforts.
Perhaps Gillian’s next call would do the trick. Once they learn that the Ash Ock liege-killer is here.
Jerem sighed. “Why can’t I convince you that I don’t want to see my mom?”
“You have convinced me. But you can’t always get what you want.”
“I never get what I want.”
“Come on. Let’s go.” They stepped out into the main concourse.
The shuttle port swelled with a rich cross-section of Sirak-Brath’s most obdurate citizenry. Bare-breasted silkies leaned against shuttle ramps, eyes darting as they sought new trade. Scudclowns howled. Quiet men in dark suits scurried like mice. Guardians and patrollers glared suspiciously at everyone; a trio of C-ray ignors hobbled along, holding hands, vacant eyes seeing no one. The air was filled with the smell of pirates.
Gillian walked behind Jerem, kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder to guide him. A swarthy band of old women, uniformly garbed in swirling Mexican skirts, fell into their path and began singing a dirge about the fall of Quetzalcoatl. Gillian steered Jerem out of their way.
He felt the boy’s shoulders tense as a laughing scuddie brushed by. The young woman childishly stuck her tongue out at Jerem. She broke into fiendish hysterics when the boy released an uneasy smile. The woman stank—not the distinct odor of a pirate but the more pervasive smell of someone who had not bathed in ages.
“Money for Missy?” begged the woman, stretching out a quivering palm. “Money for...” Her voice cracked; she dropped to her knees, giggling.
Jerem unpocketed a small wad of cash cards and shoved them into the scuddie’s hand.
“You know where she’ll spend that money,” Gillian warned. The boy shrugged. “Maybe someone will help her someday.” Gillian felt a knot tighten his chest. He changed the subject. “Whether you like it or not, I’m sure your mother will be glad to see you.”
Jerem frowned. “Yeah, I know she will. But she’ll just be happy because she’ll have me to push around again. That pirate woman I told you about—Grace. She understands Mom. Grace said that my mom takes pleasure from the maternal leash.”
Gillian chuckled. The boy’s words struck him as oddly humorous.
“Was your mother that way?” Jerem asked. Gillian flashed to a forgotten memory of his own mother—a pale-faced stick figure feeding him citrus-sweetened fiber bars. They were alone on an enclosed porch. He was very young at the time, perhaps three, yet he sensed that the porch was a part of their home. Outside, the moist air was tinged a dull shade of pink, the sky half-blackened by an approaching storm. The thick rain forest surrounding their Kansas home crackled with the sound of distant thunder.
Without warning, the memory disappeared, was replaced by a feeling of discomfort in his guts. He gasped. Terror surged through him—a swell of emotion that rose from his stomach and rooted him to the terminal floor. He released Jerem’s shoulders and turned away so that the boy would not see his fear.
I move—I am. I want—I ... I ...
Terror became pain, expanding into his chest, coursing through his body like an electric current. He wrapped his arms around himself, clenching in an effort to control the cry that threatened to burst from his lips. A spasm shook him.
“Gillian! What’s wrong?”
Jerem’s words seemed to physically recede, mutate into a distant cacophony of sounds, intermingle with the general hubbub of the shuttle terminal.
What’s happening to me?
His fists tightened. The agony surged down his arms, seemed to explode out the ends of his fingertips. A cry escaped him.
I am in control! He silently mouthed the words, allowed them to tumble through awareness. I am in control!
Abruptly, the pain retreated. It collapsed within him, a balloon pierced by a hot needle. The residue of the pain became a ball of sparkling warmth at the base of his spine. He took a deep breath. The ball rocketed up his spine, dissolved.
“Gillian!”
Jerem stood at his side, the young face twisted with worry. Gillian sensed a mélange of other concerns from along the concourse. Mixed among them were expressions of cruelty, a range of enjoyments at his agony.
“I’m all right,” he breathed. “It’s all right.”
From beyond the Mexican dirge-singers came a flash of golden light.
“Down!” Gillian hissed, yanking Jerem violently to the floor. He clamped his jaw shut, heard the soft hum of his crescent web igniting. A flick of the wrist launched the Cohe into his waiting palm.
The scuddie, screeching out giggles, fell to the floor in a fit of mimicry. She rolled onto her back and kicked her legs high into the air. Her mouth opened wide as if she were trying to keep from choking on her own peals of laughter.
Gillian gazed at the spot where he had seen the strange flash of light. There was nothing; only the endless movement of people across the terminal.
He shuddered, “Did you see that?”
“See what?” asked the boy. The worry seemed fixed to Jerem’s face.
Gillian stood up. “It was nothing, I suppose. Just ... nothing.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing.” He slid his tongue along his upper left molars, located the tiny web deactivator rubbed it twice in quick succession. The crescent fields dissolved. He slipped the Cohe into the pocket of his leather jacket. He felt reasonably certain that no one had seen the weapon. And anyone who had heard the faint hum
of his web would not be unduly alarmed. Crescent webs were illegal, but tolerated—at least in Sirak-Brath.
Still, there were patrollers and Guardians everywhere tonight, no doubt in response to the tavern killings. Gillian had been lucky none of them had taken notice of his episode.
Episode? He stifled a harsh laugh. The word did not exist to describe what had just happened to him.
Quickly, before they attracted more attention, he led Jerem away. The scuddie staggered to her feet. “Money for Missy?” she begged. “Money for a poor lonely little girl.” Her laughter echoed as they retreated.
“Ramp forty,” Gillian said, eagerly pointing to the descending treadway. “That’s the one.”
Jerem’s eyes did not leave Gillian’s face, “What happened to you? Some kind of epileptic attack or somethin’?”
They stepped onto the deserted ramp, fell into the flow of the moving treadway as it burrowed toward the outer shell of the colony.
Gillian shook his head. “No. It was ... a reaction. Something to do with an old injury.”
“What kind of injury?”
“An old injury. It’s very complicated.” Gillian had not the faintest idea of what had occurred. I must speak to Nick. He might know. The midget possessed some medical knowledge. He had helped Gillian with ailments in the past.
But never anything like this.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
Gillian forced himself to smile at the boy. “Yes, I’m really all right.” Whatever had befallen him had passed. All that remained was a cold memory of his actions, a dull confusion. He knew better than to dwell on the incident, to probe for reasons.
Three massive shuttles came into view at the base of the ramp. They rested side by side in the huge storage bay. Their outer shells were pockmarked and scarred and all bore clan markings on their short stubby wings.
One airlock was open. A powerful-looking black man stood beneath the hatch.
Jerem stiffened. “That’s Santiago—one of the pirates who kidnapped us in Moat Piloski’s shop. He’s Aaron’s friend.”
Gillian nodded. They stepped from the treadway and walked toward the shuttle. The pirate turned and called to someone inside the craft.
Liege-Killer Page 29
