He set the comp for self-analysis and shut it down. The program would take some time to run and hopefully it would show if there had been any tampering.
Meanwhile, he was going out.
He keyed the com for Milnus.
"Milnus? Yes, listen. I want full scan. Security, comp, personnel, the lot. No, I don't care. Just do it. You know how to reach me if anything turns up. I'm going out." He carried on, speaking over any questions that came from the other end, then flicked the com off in disgust.
Yes, time to go out, but not unprepared. He reached into his desk and pulled out his portable com, clipped it to his belt, then reached down and opened a hidden drawer. Sitting in a moulded foam bed lay a weapon.
It was small, ugly, and very effective, as well as being highly illegal. The squat, slot-nosed gun was designed to project thin, chemical-coated slivers of metal. Because of the projectile's size, each cartridge contained about two hundred shots. The chemicals themselves were fast and efficient, ranging all the way from disablement to rapid and painful death. Although not very effective at long range, it was a perfect defence in close, the burst facility giving a wide and rapid blanket coverage.
Valdor slotted in a cartridge from the selection available in compartments in the drawer, and clipped the sliver to his belt beneath the concealing folds of his cloak. He chose paralysis as the desired option. If he ran into trouble, he wanted to be able to ask why, and a dead assailant would answer nothing.
Checking his appearance in the full-length mirror by the door, he flicked back one long, wayward strand of hair and patted it into place. Moistening his lips, and, giving his reflection a sneer just for the effect, he placed his hand on the wall beside the mirror to summon his private elevator. While he waited, he checked his image. He preferred it this way, having his comings and goings unobserved. Always better to have no visible patterns that others could seize on and use. The mirror moved back and sideways into the wall revealing the starkly lit elevator cubicle. Its walls were mirrored also, and Valdor checked his reflection from each side as he stepped in and made his descent. The elevator slid smoothly to a stop, and Valdor stepped out to the street. He drew his cloak around himself against the chill.
The roadway was slick with evening damp. Street lights and advertising holos reflected in sinuous patterns along the length of the widely spaced avenue. Some of the older stone buildings seemed to sweat their collected moisture as the light from his open elevator doorway caught the sheen of the walls opposite. The evening was reasonably mild for the time of year, yet the chill still caught him, fogging his breath, and giving him reason to pull his cloak even tighter. You could taste the cold in the air.
He stood for a moment as the door slid shut behind him, considering the options. There was only one destination he really had in mind — the night quarters. There amidst the babble of porters and partiers he had contacts and it would be good to see some of them. It would help him perform some investigations of his own at the same time.
New Helvetica of course had its own security network, necessitated by its status and ever-changing population. The first line of that defence, was a set of orbital stations that monitored, checked, and verified all incoming and outgoing traffic. Every single ship was, as a matter of routine, identified and checked. Valdor had his own link into the global system that constantly monitored and updated his records. One could always buy the right access if one had the resources. Certainly, he had been out of touch, but not so out of touch as to miss anything as significant as the arrival of a Sirona ship. Such occurrences just didn't happen every day.
There lay the kernel of what was really troubling him. No Sirona ship meant no Sirona. That stood to reason. He pondered this as he strode through the urban canyons that led to his destination — urban canyons that felt like his real home.
The numbers of people on the streets grew as he approached the nexus of the city's night time activity. There were one or two hustlers about, but apart from these, whom he noted as he passed, there was just the normal but varied crowd. The standard resort set's therm wore abounded, sprinkled with the more uniform colours of the portside workers. As he strolled, he felt not exactly out of place, but at the same time conspicuous. He knew he shouldn't. After all, this was home to him as much as the complex of his various holdings.
He was entering the area of the flesh shops, and lurid displays, lighting every angle and shop front, beckoned potential patrons with their hollow promises. The resorter component of the crowd was thinning out here, the balance of clothing identifying more of the portside workers. It was the latter that this section of the city really catered to. The resorters had their own decadences on tap. There were some tourists, habitual sightseers, mixed in with the navy crowd, many already inebriated and rowdy. He often wondered what sort of hollow mentality could possibly fell prey to the obvious came-ons such as those that lit the storefronts hereabouts.
Valdor strode resolutely forward, eyes fixed ahead of him and ignored the milling masses. Looking like he had something to do and somewhere to go always seemed the best means of avoiding these herd animals. He really had little respect for their type — so easily led. He merely wanted to get through them and reach his destination. He curled his lips with distaste as an unsteady porter stumbled against him and, flipping his cloak about him, pushed past.
The cloak was doubly useful here. It kept prying fingers away from his belt, and in a crowd such as this, there was bound to be a few who might chance their arm.
Suddenly, he found his path closed ahead by four thick-set navy types. One guffawed and belched, bringing Valdor's attention to their faces. Mischief worked in their piggy visages as, hands on hips, they deliberately stepped in his path. He tried his usual tactic of pretending to ignore and side-step them, but to no avail. They in turn stepped sideward in response. They clearly meant trouble.
One, the largest of the beef, nudged one of his companions in the ribs with his elbow. The look on his face said it all, but the man spoke a little too loudly just to make his point clear. Valdor needed no help in understanding their intent.
"Well, what have we here mates? Looked like Mezzer Fancy Troos has come out to play with us," he bellowed, looking from side to side at each of his fellow navy types, a broad grin on his face.
Valdor tried once more to step past the four but with even less success. They moved once more to block him, grins growing wider. Valdor sighed. One hazard of dealing in this section of the city. Slowly he looked from face to grinning red and sweaty face, ran his fingers through his hair, smiled sweetly at them and dropped his hand to his belt. He had already marked the one who had spoken as their leader. So, let them see how the body performed without a head.
With a slight backward arch of his wrist, and without even unclipping the sliver from his belt, he fired, hitting the ringleader and his nearest companion in quick succession. The first clutched at his throat and then dropped. Valdor was already walking forward over the first crumpled form, as the other one started to collapse. He continued without a backward glance, ignoring the cries of outrage and consternation that grew behind him. He could picture the dumbfounded looks and the struggle as one of the remaining two fought to hold his companion back. He suspected he might have curbed their exuberance for this particular shore leave. Stupidity got what it deserved.
The two he had shot would be fine, if feeling a little hung-over and worse for wear in about twelve hours' time. Meanwhile, he had somewhere to be, and he couldn't afford to stand around just for the sake of an insignificant disturbance. Let the militaire sort it out, as long as he wasn't there when they did. Some two blocks further down he ducked into a side street just to make sure.
He traversed the length of a few more streets before heading directly to the area he had been seeking. The unremarkable shop front he wanted lay just back from the main thoroughfare on a side alley. It was marked only by one blinking red holo, curved above the opaque windows and open door. Marina's the sign proclai
med, shouting the solitary word with carmine flashes the length of the alley. The doorway was hung with a curtain of cut-glass chime beads that belled with crystalline tones as he ducked inside. The reception area was the same as it had ever been, dim glowing red. A long bench ran the length of one wall and opposite sat three selection booths, fitted with holo units. A narrow staircase disappeared into redness at the area's back. He knew only too well the quarters it climbed to above.
Valdor didn't recognise the girl who sat behind the bench, hands busy plaiting a length of shiny filament into her long dark hair. She wore a plain white body suit ideally accentuating the darkness of her skin and hugging her taut and muscular frame. She barely glanced up as she spoke to him.
"Evening Mezzer. Welcome to Marina's. What's your pleasure, dear?" She waited for a response, and when none was forthcoming, continued. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can accommodate you. Maybe you would like the use of one of the booths to help you choose. Feel free ... if that's what you want."
Her voice was deep and rich, probably enhanced, but the tone was almost patronising and carried a heavy trace of boredom behind the accent. Valdor decided instantly that he didn't like this one; not his sort of style really. Briefly he wondered what had happened to the regular, Jolie.
"No Mez, that will not be necessary. I would like to see Marina," he said in a crisp business-like manner.
"'Fraid that is not possible, Mezzer. I'm sure that one of our selections will be perfectly adequate," she answered, indicating the booths once more with a lift of her eyebrows and a tilt of her head toward the far wall.
"I'm afraid you don't understand, Mez. I'm here to see Marina," he said.
"No, you the one who don' understand. Marina's jus' the name, Mezzer. You catch it?" she said impatiently, rolling her eyes as if she thought he was stupid.
That was enough to set him over the edge. His patience was limited at the best of times and Valdor was used to getting his own way. He certainly was not accustomed to being treated as if he was a little slow on the uptake. He said his next words oh so quietly and calmly through firmly clenched teeth.
"Now, I think you should pay attention to me, you idiot girl. I. Am. Here. To. See. Marina. Now get on your com, the one you keep under there, and tell Marina that Valdor is here to see her. Do you understand? And leave that where it is," he warned her, as she drifted her hand toward the drawer on the right. "The com is there," he said pointing. "Now use it!"
The girl reached reluctantly for the com as she studied him. Her other hand still hovered in the vicinity of the drawer. She spoke in muffled tones, never taking her eyes off him, and waited for the reply. Nodding, she severed the connection, replaced the device, and petulantly told him to wait, indicating a chair at the base of the staircase with her head. He took up position, smug in the small victory, and fixed his eyes on the entrance, oblivious to the occasional sneering looked the girl tossed his way as she returned to plaiting her hair.
He didn't have long to wait. The sound of feet descending the staircase announced Marina's arrival moments later. She swept into the vestibule in a diaphanous rainbow cloak, metal strands shimmering with the wind of her passage. She spun around searching for him and moved quickly over to stand over him, arms crossed over her chest as she looked him up and down.
"Well, well. Valdor Carr, you old reprobate. Finally got around to visiting old friends have we? Stand up and let me look at you. How the hell have you been, lover?"
As usual Marina filled the small space with her presence. She was as tough as stone this one. Valdor was sure that it was one of the reasons he liked her so much. He rose and gave her a kiss on each cheek, then waited as she held him at arm's length and inspected him.
"Well, you're still in one piece at least. Come on. Come upstairs and talk. You can tell me why you've suddenly chosen to visit after so long. I assume there's a reason," she said linking her arm with his and leading him up the stairs. "No calls, Bathena," she said over her shoulder as they mounted the stairs. "I'm in conference."
Marina led him along, hitting him with a barrage of questions as they went. To each he gave only monosyllabic replies. She finally gave up just before they reached the door. Palming the lock, she threw the door open, leading him into her private apartments. Valdor, as usual, was a little overwhelmed with Marina's exuberance. Half of it was performance he knew, but after a long absence it was a little much to bear.
The apartments were sumptuous, furnished in the finest style. The decoration was flawless and balanced, exquisitely tasteful in form and line, furnishings, art, and lighting. Marina obviously did very well out of her small business, both the club and her side-lines. Looking at her, it would be hard to pick her for the woman of style she really was.
"So," she said standing back. She placed her fists on her hips and looked at him, top to toe. "Valdor Carr. It has been a while since you've bothered to grace me with your presence. What, more than six months? Still — before we start — what's your pleasure? Kahveh, or something stronger? Whatever you want, dear." She waved her hand in the direction of the well-stocked bar.
"Kahveh will be fine, Marina. Thanks. How have you been? You're looking well. It looks like business is treating you well too. That is, no worse than usual." He scanned the room as he spoke and saw one or two new pieces that added to her collection and confirmed his assessment.
"No, you're right. Can't complain, Valdor," she said, laughing lightly, as she prepared his drink.
To look at, Marina gave little hint of her underlying sophistication and razor business sense. Bright red hair, heavily made-up and loud extravagant clothes by the top avant-garde designers made her seem unsubtle and brash. Not the sort of person to really feel at home with, let alone to be responsible for furnishing apartments such as these. Valdor knew better. Their association went back some years. At one stage they had been lovers, but that was long past. Marina's shrewdness and underlying complexity had always attracted him. By now though, desire had been replaced by admiration and their friendship had blossomed accordingly.
He smiled inwardly with remembrance of times past as he watched her prepare the drinks. She was right. It had been too long.
She returned with glasses for both, settled herself on the sofa beside him, and after handing him his drink, patted his thigh with her free hand.
"Well, my dear, tell me what's been happening. You only turn up these days if there's something going on," she said, with just a hint of reproach.
"I know, Marina. I'm sorry. Time just sort of gets away without one realising it. You know. But you're right as usual. Damned if you still can't read me like a book. I have a favour to ask you." Not even waiting for her response, he continued. "How are your sources at the moment?"
"As good as ever. You should know that, lover." She waved her hand dismissively and smiled. "This, my dear, intrigues me. What is it you want to know? Your network has been as good as mine for some time now. Hasn't it? So, what's happened ... trouble?" There was genuine concern in her voice.
"No, no. Nothing that bad," he said with a slight shake of his head.
Briefly, he recounted the major details of the Sirona's visit. He said nothing of the problems with the security systems or of the details of the Sirona's offer. Not that he didn't feel that Marina could be trusted. It was just the way he wanted it for now. It should give him time to think and sort out his options, and help arm him with a two-pronged attack. Marina's sources were good, and if he had missed anything, she would be bound to come up with the answers. Armed with the right information, he'd be better equipped to deal with them. Give him two or three days, and with Marina's assistance, he should have this little problem well and truly by the bits that counted.
Chapter Four
The ship's hull was long, sleek, and black. It tapered to a thin swept-down nose, cruel and slightly reminiscent of a bird of prey. Aerodynamic swept fins and wings give it obvious rapid manoeuvrability in atmosphere. All the better to shake that annoying purs
uit planetside. The dull black hull was uniform, and unmarked, unlike most other ships at dock.
Mahra stood back and looked at it with her hands on her hips. Impressive ... designed not only for planetary work but virtually invisible against the dark backdrop of deep space. She checked the dock number again. 'D9' — yes, that was it all right. The only marking visible was a pair of red lips discretely painted on the tail section. She laughed despite herself.
"Yeah, you can kiss my tail as well, Pellis," she said out loud.
As if in response to her comment, a mass of dark curls emerged from the open lock. They belonged to none other than the moustached face of the man in question. He beamed in greeting.
"Ah, it is. It is indeed. Mez Kaitan. Mahra. The woman herself. I thought I heard someone out here, so I came to have a look. I can only hope your last comment was an invitation," he said.
He flashed her a disarming grin and she blushed despite herself.
"Well come on," he said, beckoning her closer. "What do you think of her?"
He stood proudly in the open lock and gestured along the ship's length with arms stretched wide.
Mahra sucked in her cheeks and slowly, making a great show of it, deliberately looked from one end to the other with an air of appraisal, pausing once for effect before looking Pellis straight in the face and replying.
"Hmm. Not bad," she said.
"Ha! Not bad, is it? She's beautiful. And you know it. Humph. I almost have a mind not to introduce you after a crack like that. Ah, but that would be impolite, wouldn't it? So, let's see ... Mahra Kaitan, allow me to present The Dark Falcon, love of my life and glory of my days."
The Dark Falcon. The suitability of the name struck her at once. It had to be Pellis's name for the ship. She doubted it could have come from anyone else. Certainly not the taciturn Sind unless she had severely misjudged him on the first meeting.
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