by Blaze Ward
The jacket was a blazer, sort of, except it had poofy patch pockets attached to the front instead of them being inside slits. Three buttons covered the front with a narrow lapel, but only the middle button was hooked. Instead of a dress shirt with a tie, he was wearing a black, knit pullover that tucked into the pants behind a brown, leather belt.
“Where’s the holster go?” Baker asked abruptly, bringing Gareth back to the job at hand.
“Tucked into the bottom of the shorts,” the Grace replied. “Accessible via the clasp that hold the knee hitch closed and generally concealed by the pleat and gather on the thighs. Are you right handed or left, Dankworth?”
“Right,” he said, watching the Grace type something into the keyboard.
Gareth stopped himself from speaking. If this was a grinder, what must a fop look like? He had been expecting leather with chrome spikes, or something equally outrageous. This was almost something he could take golfing, if he could get the man to add threads for spikes to the bottom of the boots.
And he looked good.
But the best part was the new beret. It was huge, almost a tam-o-shanter in size, done in a coarse, black wool, with a gold medallion on the left side and a pair of feathers poking up that looked like they came from Stellar’s Jays, bright, fierce blue.
“You like?” Baker asked, suddenly standing right next to him.
“I do,” Gareth replied honestly. “Rugged but distinguished. I could wear that outfit many places without being self-conscious.”
“Good,” she smiled wickedly. “Because you’re going to be bait.”
Gareth suppressed a shudder at the way her voice sounded.
But who ever asked the worm how he felt?
On The Run
“Thoughts?” Morty asked as the auto-taxi deposited them on the sidewalk and bounced back into the sky.
“We stay away from any spot where we took Gareth,” Xiomber said. “Past that, we need a roof and I’ve got the munchies.”
Morty nodded. Jorghen hadn’t been his favorite tailor in Londra, but he had needed to keep Gareth’s scent away from the woman who normally dressed him and his brother. He could imagine what it would have been like introducing her to Gareth.
And he would miss his favorite tea house, but the poor girl who had waited on them had probably been utterly traumatized by the time the cops got done with her. Seeing them again would likely bring it all back in a screaming flash that would end up with he and his egg-brother under arrest.
“Right,” Morty said, turning right and heading east down the street. Downtown Londra was commercial, but there were all sorts of places on the east end that got deep into the Bohemian side of things. Just the place for a couple of renegade physicists to hide.
A bus dropped them at the edge of a park. The weather was passable nice today. Just warm enough that people were outside, but not warm enough to encourage the kinds of nude debauchery Morty had seen around here in the middle of summer.
Still, his favorite hot dog stand was doing a brisk business. He got five, figuring Xiomber would stop at two, like he normally did, and they’d have to hit the pastry shop on the far side of the park afterwards, as always. The coffee was bitter dark, but Stanz didn’t like tea and Morty didn’t want to stand in line for any of the other shops or stands.
They ended up not far from the water fountain, leaned back against a couple of rocks in a bushy area with a good view of the ball fields and generally out of sight. The fountain was off and the fields were abandoned right now, but both would change within a week or three.
They ate in silence, watching the few students studying and a couple of young mothers with strollers, but the park was amazingly empty. Just the way Morty liked it. So much harder for someone to sneak up on them.
Morty checked his watch as a private sedan landed clear across the way. Omerlon’s people might be cut-rate punks, but they did understand punctuality. Three people piled out, two Grace and a Warreth, and started across the field, leaving the vehicle and the driver over in the parking lot.
From their seats, it would be almost impossible for the guys coming to spot them, which was how Morty preferred it. Smuggling themselves across the galaxy was enough of a pain in the tail. Trying to get guns from a reputable fence at the same time was too much.
Plus, Omerlon didn’t have any reason to hate them, as far as Morty knew. Nobody outside Sarzynski’s gang even knew the new boss had been human once, not counting the cops, let alone knew that he and his egg-brother had been responsible for it. Better for everyone to keep it that way.
Nope, hopefully this was just a job interview, and they could settle in and do nice, simple, criminal things for the folks around here for a while, at least until he or Xiomber figured out a way to turn themselves into the Constables, or somebody actually managed to take Maximus down and they might be safe.
That happened, and Morty could see retiring to a nice desert somewhere, living off the ill-gotten gains of a disreputable life of crime without having to look over his shoulder constantly for assassins.
The two Grace thugs pulled up short and took up a spot off to one side. Visible, but not close enough to listen. The Warreth moved to the edge of the fountain and sat.
Morty turned to Xiomber.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he said.
“Oh, hell no it isn’t,” Xiomber chirped. “I got lots of chances to sell your stupid ass down the line and set myself up as a king.”
Morty smiled.
“You aren’t rich enough to buy the right babes, Xiomber,” he sneered merrily. “Best you could do it rent them by the hour.”
“And they’ll still charge me half what they would you,” Xiomber countered. “Let’s do this. The dogs were good, but I want a turnover now.”
Morty shrugged and rose. He emerged from the bushes first, with Xiomber close behind. Like the Warreth, they were wearing light jackets and heavy dungarees today, but everyone kept hands in the open, like polite thugs meeting in public.
“You Xiomber?” the Warreth asked as they got to speaking distance.
“Nope. Morty,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. “That’s Xiomber. You Danzeekar?”
“Correct,” the Warreth replied.
The two Grace appeared to relax a little, turning each a little sideways to make sure nobody else suddenly decided to join this shindig, like, say, cops. Or assassins.
Morty had no doubts that all three were armed, but that was just part of the game these days.
He walked close enough to talk, but didn’t feel like climbing up on the bench.
“So we’re out of work and looking,” Morty said.
“That’s the message I got,” Danzeekar replied. “Why is that?”
“Because Maximus is nuts and getting worse,” Morty snapped. “Turning into a killer. Smart money’s getting out now, while all the parts are still attached.”
“So, free agents?” the Warreth asked haughtily.
“It’s you or the cops, pretty boy,” Morty sneered. “Nobody else has enough moxie to keep us safe from assassins. You need a couple of high-end physicists in the organization?”
“Rumors say that you two also do genetic work,” the birdman observed in a neutral voice. “That true?”
“Yup,” Morty smiled. “We did some of the upgrades on Maximus, along with Talyarkinash Liamssen.”
“What kinds of upgrades?”
The beak was pointed this way now. Morty smiled as the headcrest popped up to full extension. He had the guy’s attention and interest, finally. Dumb-ass punk.
“That’s above your pay grade, pal,” Morty said. “And sure as hell not something to talk about in the middle of a park in the middle of the day, capiche?”
“So you want to come in from the cold?” Danzeekar said. “Just like that?”
“We got information your boss will find interesting,” Morty said. “Plus our skills and experience. You make us a good offer on salary and benefits, and we ca
n do a deal. You empowered to negotiate at that level, or should we talk to the big guy?”
Morty held his breath while the Warreth considered. They really didn’t have a lot of leverage, but Omerlon’s folks wouldn’t know how hard he was bluffing.
Hopefully.
And wouldn’t call his bluff, either, because most of this was bluff.
“You got bonafides?” the man asked.
Bingo.
Morty nearly laughed out loud. Pretty boy was just a messenger, sure, but high enough ranking to dicker. Bonafides were secrets presented in good faith. That first taste of the cake before you bought the rest.
“Yeah,” Morty said as he stuffed his hands into his front pockets. “We upgraded Maximus to a full genius intelligence level as part of the other things we did to him. Liamssen wasn’t involved in that part.”
“How the hell did you do that?” Danzeekar was shocked. “He’s Vanir. They’re already about as fixed as you can get.”
Morty just smiled. Kinda rocked back and forth with his hands in his front pockets. Not quite mocking the guy.
“Oh, and the only other person who knows any of what we did?” he continued. “Talyarkinash Liamssen? She’s in Constabulary custody, and has been for several weeks. I imagine, from my own sources, that she’s spilled everything she knows. You saw how fast Hurquar has been dismantled in the last month, right? Wanna talk yet?”
“Yeah,” the Warreth’s headcrest bobbed three times. “You got a number we can reach you? Boss will want a sit-down after I talk to him.”
“Nope,” Morty said. “You leave a message with Stanz, the hot dog vendor. He’s an old comrade of ours. I’ll check in with him later and see where you’d like to meet. Dinner at an expensive joint, reasonably public, would do nicely.”
Morty turned and walked back into the bushes. Xiomber was kinda crab-walking, to keep an eye on the Grace, but they made it to cover.
There was a little creek tucked in down there. Morty led his partner to it and skittered along the shore as fast as his stubby legs would allow.
When they emerged from the park ten minutes later, that sedan was gone, so Morty picked a side street with some traffic and headed north, Xiomber walking about forty meters behind so they didn’t appear to be together, to a watcher looking for a pair of Yuudixtl males.
They settled into the pastry shop for turnovers and more coffee. Better, but still not tea.
“Think they’ll go for it?” Xiomber asked around a mouthful of blueberry jam threatening to run down his front.
“Hope so,” Morty replied. “They really are our last chance. After that, we either have to go straight, or go to the cops.”
Lifeblood of the Grace
Gareth closed the book and placed it atop a pile of three others on the sidetable next to his comfy reading chair. Two days and four books on the topic wasn’t going to make him an expert on art, but he could at least have a reasonable conversation at the event without looking like a complete fool.
Plus Grodray had brought in an older man, a Grace of some note as an art historian, to prep him for tonight. Apparently, the older a Grace got, the longer their tentacles grew, so he must have been ancient, since some of his had come down to nearly his waist when they hung still.
And he knew everyone that was going to be at the show. This was Orgoth Vortai, so that would be critical. Gareth wasn’t native to the planet, but even he had been impressed. The Accord Ball was the social event of the season, and everyone who was anyone on the planet had been trying to get tickets to attend.
It was a fundraiser, so the major players either bought seats, or an entire table, for astronomical sums that supported the Accord Hall of Arts, the gravitational center of Grace culture. Lesser players were admitted as far as the front hall, where everyone could watch the beautiful people arrive, and then they were allowed into the hall itself after dinner, where they could mingle.
Rumor had it that the deals done every year at this event represented a serious percentage of the planetary output. At least in total cash.
How the Constabulary had gotten three tickets, Gareth didn’t know, but obviously, strings had been pulled. Or they had the cash for something like this in their operating budget.
Or they just sent a few officers undercover every year on general principle.
He checked the time on his nightstand and decided he was close enough to ready. A quick look in the mirror hung on the wall to confirm everything, and he stuffed his new pocketcomm into the breast pocket of his blazer. The palm-sized stun pistol was on his thigh, hidden away inside the pant leg. He picked his beret up off the nightstand and went to the door.
He was supposed to wear the beret inside, but that just didn’t fit with how he was raised, so it could wait until he was in the auto-car.
Grodray and Baker were down in the Operations Center when he arrived, chatting with Talyarkinash. Interestingly, while he was in the so-called grinder outfit, undercover, both of them where in their uniforms. Baker had even gone so far as to wear her outer tunic, like she was taking this sort of thing quite seriously.
Both women turned to him when he entered and gave him a critical once-over. Actually, all seven women in sight did the same, but Gareth tried to ignore that fact. And the intense interest and smiles on those faces.
“Beret?” Talyarkinash asked, so Gareth put it on, draping it just right.
“Yes,” she said a moment later. “You’ll do. Quite nicely.”
Gareth blushed at her tone. It was not entirely friendly. Or it was, but not just that. No, he was the center of a lot of attentions, right now, like a beautiful woman who had walked into a room full of sailors who had been to space for too long.
Uncomfortable. Unpleasant turnabout. He would have made a note to say something about that sort of behavior when he got home, but he quashed that thought before it ever took shape.
There was no home. Not anymore. There was the Accord of Souls. And whatever he did to fit in here. For the rest of his life.
Gareth found himself standing at attention, like this was an inspection, so he forced himself to relax. It was an inspection, and he had apparently passed, from the looks, but he wasn’t being graded.
Much.
“We’ll depart first,” Grodray announced simply, coming over to stand close.
He was a tall man, but skinny. Standing next to Gareth just emphasized his own, massive bulk.
Gareth nodded.
“You just smile and make small talk, Gareth,” he said with a friendly grin. “Nobody knows you here except us, so it makes a good way to quietly introduce you to Accord society in a way that doesn’t require a lot of legend-building on your part. You be aloof and mysterious. Talk art as if you’ll be writing all this up for some magazine under a pseudonym later, and everyone will be polite.”
“Then what?” he asked, still a little fuzzy on the overall picture.
“Then we’ll see who nibbles at the bait,” Baker said. “Nobody knows who you are, so you can make a whole range of new connections that can turn into contacts later.”
“Okay,” Gareth agreed. “I get that, but why don’t I have business cards to hand out when they ask? I’m really just supposed to give them my first name and a comm box?”
“It forces them to perk up,” Grodray said. “Makes you a galactic man of mystery, especially as an unknown who could afford a seat at this table, and had the connections to get in. Everyone will want to know who you are. Make them work at it.”
“Okay,” he shrugged. “Never really done undercover work, but I can at least talk art.”
“And on Orgoth Vortai, that is all that matters, Gareth,” Talyarkinash smiled up at him, reaching out a hand to flatten his lapel a little and run her hand down the wool of his blazer. Maybe a little too long. “I can’t wait for you to tell me all the details later.”
“And that’s our cue,” Grodray said. “Your vehicle will arrive in ten minutes, so you should arrive just as the red carpet st
arts to get interesting. Remember, aloof and mysterious.”
Gareth nodded and watched them head to the door. He had his pocketcomm, his wallet, and his stunner. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t embarrass himself, or the nice man who had walked him so carefully through so much art history.
All he had now was that and those four books of modern art history and biography he had largely memorized.
Hopefully, it would be enough.
The Red Carpet
In one of the books the older gentleman had suggested Gareth read, walking the red carpet was occasionally referred to as “The Pole Dance,” which conjured up images of a scantily-clad woman doing all manner of athletic maneuvers on and with a floor-to-ceiling brass pole on a stage. Similar to burlesque, but far more physical in nature and requiring a great deal more effort to make look effortless.
And a little seedy, when you got right down to it. Tonight’s arrival, too.
The auto-taxi deposited him at the curb behind a massive, hopefully-only-gold-plated limousine that delivered a well-dressed Grace and his barely-covered companion. They walked up the red carpet and were politely accosted at each of several reporter station, with cameras rolling. Famous people. Gareth hadn’t seen either face to be sure, but he had narrowed the options down to about four, all of them important.
He himself emerged to a flash of lights and whistles, but the man holding the vehicle’s door made it clear that he was to simply amble inside, in full view of everyone, but not stop and chat with any of the reporters, unless specifically accosted.
Aloof and mysterious.
And really, freaking self-conscious, but he mustered himself under the gravity of the scene and strode forward in a relaxed manner. He could ignore the various whistles and cat-calls emerging from the dimly-lit crowd behind the barriers and holding up cameras.
Right?
Five reporters, each interviewing someone. Gareth breezed by them at a slow cadence, glancing right and left, but not seeing anything outside his imagination.
