Warlord

by Angela Knight

  “Xerans have a…flexible legal system.” His tone was so intensely bitter, she wondered what they’d done to him. “The more money you have, the more flexible it is. These men have a lot of money.”

  “But—”

  “If you’d just let me go on, we’ll all find out everything we want to know,” the wolf interrupted with an impatient rumble.

  “Be my guest, furball,” she muttered.

  Freika chose to ignore the crack. “His name is Kalig Alrico Oth Druas…”

  “Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it?”

  “…a Xeran cyborg mercenary with a very bad temper and a tendency to kill those who irritate him. Including his commanders, which would probably explain why he hasn’t worked in several years.”

  “So why isn’t he in jail?” Jane asked. “Or on a penal colony, or whatever the futuristic equivalent is?”

  Baran shrugged. “As I said, it’s Xer.”

  “Aka Planet of the Psychopaths.”

  Evidently refusing to dignify her comment with a response, Baran looked at Freika. “Capabilities?”

  “Basically, he’s got enough nano-cybernetic muscle implants to match your strength.”

  “Even in riatt?”

  “I doubt it, but it’ll be close.”

  “Can I make a request?” Jane demanded, thoroughly frustrated. “Can we go five minutes without using futurespeak?”

  Baran contemplated the question. “Probably not.”

  “Smartass. So how did the twenty-fourth century’s answer to Jeffrey Dahmer get into the entertainment business?” If she asked enough questions, maybe all this would start making sense. Maybe.

  The wolf cocked his black head, studying the image. “Basically, he needed money. From assorted records TE managed to acquire, it seems he supported himself the last few years working for various criminal enterprises. However, he must have been too unpredictable even by underworld standards, because that finally dried up, too.”

  Baran frowned as if a question had suddenly occurred to him. “Where did he get the temporal armor he uses to make his Jumps?” To Jane he added, “Access to T-suits is very tightly controlled. Possessing a suit without authorization is a capital crime. And TE is not picky about legal niceties when they catch you at it.”

  She digested the concept and wrinkled her nose. “So where did he get it?”

  “The short answer is, TE has no idea,” Freika said.

  “But I’ll wager they’re working very hard to find out,” Baran said, stretching his long legs out in front of him and lacing his big hands together over his flat belly.

  “You’d win that bet.” The wolf moved to lean against his knees. “Do you mind? That damn jack itches every time I access it.” Baran reached down and scratched the spot obligingly. “Thank you. Where was I? Oh. However he got the suit, Druas quickly started using it in a series of temporal thefts, bringing back two previously unknown Da Vincis and one of Shakespeare’s first folios—”

  “Wait a minute,” Jane interrupted. “Are you saying that people go back in time to steal?”

  “Why do you think there’s a TE?” Freika yawned, displaying a set of intimidating dental work. “Anyway, in the course of one of his thefts, he ended up murdering the wealthy female owner. Rather spectacularly.”

  “And probably raped her while he was at it,” Baran noted, absently running his long fingers through the wolf’s fur.

  “Exactly. And either for his own amusement, or because there’s a market for that kind of thing on Xer, he used his computer implant to record the crime. He gave a copy to a distributor, who put him in touch with other sick bastards with the same tastes and a great deal of money.”

  “Ewwww,” Jane said.

  “Indeed. Soon afterward, somebody came up with the bright idea of actually paying Druas to jump through time and commit well-known but historically unsolved crimes. This is his latest release.”

  The killer’s image was replaced by a six-foot hole in the air. Inside it, a woman in a long dress walked through a narrow arched doorway built of rough brick.

  Taking a closer look, Jane realized it wasn’t really a hole, just another of those three-dimensional images. This one, however, was projected in the shape of a globe. When she tried to walk around it, the angle of the image seemed to follow her, giving the impression that the globe was rotating. “That’s a really weird effect.” She cocked her head and considered it. “So, is he carrying some kind of camera around, or what?”

  “He has a computer implant in his brain,” Freika explained. “It records what he sees.”

  “Through his eyes,” Jane said, the light dawning. “That’s how you get the three-dimensional effect. And why the angle doesn’t change no matter how you move.”

  In the image the woman pushed open a door and stepped inside, then smiled flirtatiously as the killer moved after her. She was plump, pretty, and young, probably in her twenties, with dark hair piled on top of her head. Judging from the unsteadiness in her step, she was also more than a little drunk.

  Jane frowned. The brunette wore a long shabby wool gown and a red jacket. “When is this? That dress looks Victorian.”

  “Very good,” Freika said, his eyes shuttering with pleasure as Baran absently rubbed the top of his head. “According to the file, this trid was recorded in 1888.”

  Jane frowned. There were several famous Victorian murders that immediately leaped to mind, of course, but it couldn’t be one of those.

  At least, she hoped not.

  The brunette lit a candle, revealing a tiny room. It couldn’t have been more than twelve feet square—there was barely room enough for a narrow bed and a small, rickety wooden table.

  A male voice spoke from the trid, sounding very English and upper-class. “Sing for me, pretty Mary Kelly.”

  The little brunette smiled and unbuttoned her coat. “Wouldn’t you like me to do somethin’ a little more interestin’ than sing?” There was a hint of Irish music in her accent that gave it a sweet lilt.

  “Wait a minute,” Jane said. “Why is she talking to that freak? I’d think a Victorian woman would take one look at those things sticking out of his head and run screaming.”

  “He must be using an imagizer,” Baran said.

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “His computer projects a three-dimensional image around him that makes him look like someone else.”

  She frowned. “If he can do that, how are we supposed to spot him?”

  “I have sensor implants,” Baran explained. “Xeran metabolism is different from the original human rootstock, so I should be able to detect him despite the visual shield.”

  “Besides, it’s not a particularly effective disguise,” Freika added. “The first time you touched him, you’d know something was wrong. If you’ll notice, he’s a lot taller than she thinks he is.”

  Jane looked closer and saw that the girl’s eyes were aimed roughly at chest level, as if that was where the man’s face was.

  “You have such a pretty voice,” Druas said. “What was that you were singing earlier?”

  “It’s just a little ditty,” the brunette said, a dimple winking in her cheek. Despite the slight slur in her voice and the fact that she was visibly tipsy, there was a flirtatious charm about the doomed woman that made Jane wince. “It’s called ‘Sweet Violets.’”

  “Sing it again. I want to hear it.”

  “Oh. All right.” Softly at first, then more loudly, she began to sing, “Scenes of my childhood—”

  “Undress for me,” Druas interrupted. There was a note of menacing anticipation in that cultured voice the brunette was evidently too drunk to recognize. “And keep singing.”

  That girl is about to be murdered, Jane realized, as the reality of what was happening sank in. Oh, God, I don’t think I want to see this.

  Obediently Mary went on singing as she unbuttoned her shabby dress in the flickering light of the candle. “…This small violet I pluck’d
from mother’s grave…”

  “This is sickening,” Jane said, looking away.

  “Granted,” Baran said, his eyes cold and grim. “but I’ve got to review it anyway. I need to know as much as possible about the way this bastard operates.”

  She subsided. He had a point.

  Mary lifted the gown over her head, leaving only a thin linen chemise that was stained and torn in places. Folding the gown, she put it on the chair before going to work on the buttons of her chemise. Work-roughened fingers busy on the horn buttons, she turned toward Druas, still singing. “…They all have left me in…”

  There was a blur of movement, so fast Jane almost missed it. The girl’s eyes widened as she made a choked, helpless sound.

  Two enormous hands were wrapped around her neck, hoisting her into the air as her feet kicked helplessly.

  Druas was much, much taller than she was.

  “I always like this part best,” the killer told her, his voice bright, laughing.

  She kicked at him, clawing at the hands that were slowly choking her to death. Her open mouth gaped as she fought to breathe, her face darkening.

  “You’re going to be famous, Mary Jane Kelly,” Druas purred, holding her effortlessly. “For hundreds of years the photograph of what I’m going to do to you will make people stare in horror, wondering what you used to look like before I sliced away your face.”

  Her blue eyes widened helplessly in terrified realization.

  “That’s right, Mary, sweet Mary,” he said. “You’re Jack the Ripper’s last victim.”

  Jane stared at the trid in helpless horror as her head began to swim. “Sweet Jesus God.”

  Mary’s face darkened still more, the whites of her eyes going red as tiny capillaries burst. Her frantic kicks weakened.

  Finally Druas tossed her on the bed to flop bonelessly. Something silver flashed, followed by a spray of red flung by the knife as he made his first cut.

  Baran stepped toward Jane as she swayed, looking as if she was about to fall in a heap. He caught her elbow, and she sagged against him. “Stop the playback, Freika.”

  “But we need to—”

  “Later.”

  Before the wolf could argue, Jane tore herself from his arms with surprising strength and bolted across the room. Baran strode after her as she raced into a small alcove and collapsed on her knees in front of a shiny porcelain chair his computer identified as a toilet. Flinging her head down over the hole in its seat, she began to retch violently.

  Baran watched for a moment, instinctively trying to maintain his emotional distance, but her misery was too much for him. With a sigh he knelt beside her and helped her gather her long hair out of the way. She ignored him, heaving in helpless rolling spasms. “Jane, he’s not going to get the chance to do that to you. That’s why I’m here.”

  She looked up at him, wild-eyed, her face tinged green. “You mean”—she stopped to gasp—“I really am a target for Jack the fucking Ripper?”

  She jerked her head down and started heaving again, more violently than before.

  Wincing, Baran could do nothing for her but support her head. He’d seen so much bloodshed and suffering over the years that normally he was able to maintain a certain detachment.

  Yet though he’d done his share of killing, there’d been something different in the way Druas had attacked Mary Kelly, a vicious joy that was deeply disturbing.

  And then there was Jane. Watching her struggle to control her rioting stomach, he felt a twist of pity. She’d fought him with such clever bravery, it hurt to see her reduced to this helpless, sick horror.

  Finally the spasms were over. She climbed wearily to her feet and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Refusing to meet his eyes, she mumbled, “Thanks.”

  Baran shrugged, battling the uncomfortable impulse to put his arms around her. That, he knew, was a very bad idea. It was one thing to feel a healthy lust for her, but anything more was an emotional trap he couldn’t afford to fall into.

  So he hung back as she stepped to a small counter with a basin in the center and twisted a knob. Water poured from a metal projection over the basin as she picked up a small brush and started a procedure his computer called brushing her teeth.

  Finally she turned to look up at him again. Her skin was still tinted a faint, unhealthy green. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s finish looking at the recording.”

  Baran frowned at her. Knowing the Xeran taste for overkill, he suspected it would only get worse. “That’s not necessary. I’ll review the rest.”

  She shook her head, that delicate chin taking on a stubborn angle. “No, we need to stop this guy. He can’t be allowed to go on doing this.”

  “Granted, but that’s my job.” Leaning a hip against the countertop, he studied her. “You don’t need to be involved in it. Especially considering that the trid is only going to get worse.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Jane swallowed and took a deep breath. “But I have to understand this guy, what motivates him. What his M.O. is. And the only evidence we’ve got is what’s on that recording.”

  “You’ll be running in here again in five minutes,” Freika said from the doorway. “He starts getting artistic next.”

  “Then I’ll run,” she snapped. “And I’ll come back and I’ll watch the rest.”

  Any other civilian woman he knew would have been glad to let him handle the whole bloody, revolting mess. “Jane, it’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, Baran, it is. Look, you guys don’t know this time, and you don’t know this culture. You need my help, and that means I have to know as much as I can about that sick bastard.”

  Baran sighed, caught between admiration for her courage and irritation at her stubbornness. “Actually, I’m more than capable of handling the hunt without your input. Whatever I need to know about your time, my computer implant can tell me.” And if the recording did get worse than what they’d seen already, she didn’t need to be exposed to any more of it. He didn’t want her nerve to break completely. Not when she was supposed to be the bait.

  He frowned. What if something went wrong? A chill rippled over him as his mind instantly supplied a terrifying image of pretty, delicate Jane confronting that sadistic bastard. All her courage, all her beauty and intelligence, all destroyed, flayed away by Druas and his knife. Like Liisa.

  No, he decided, straightening his shoulders. Not Jane.

  This one he was going to save.

  Five

  Jane glowered at Baran, unaware of his newfound resolve. “Look, it’s my life that’s on the line here! I’m the one that bastard wants to slice like bacon. I deserve to know—”

  “Only as much as I think you need to,” he told her, striving for patience. “You’re a civilian, Jane. And I’m not. My job is to hunt Druas….”

  “And mine is to be the bait.” There was a hot, angry glitter in her dark eyes, a bitter set to her mouth. “Just writhing on the end of the hook, waiting for that creep to take a bite. Screw that. If you were in my shoes, would you want to be kept in the dark?”

  She had a point. Maybe she did need to know.

  And maybe once she found out what Druas was capable of, she’d obey orders. He’d already discovered just how difficult Jane could make things when she chose, despite his Warlord strength and cybernetic implants. They’d both be a lot safer if she stopped questioning him. “All right.”

  Mouth open as if to launch another argument, she blinked. “What?”

  “Maybe a good look at what Druas does for entertainment would convince you to let me do my job.”

  Two minutes into the rest of the recording, Jane bitterly wished she hadn’t insisted on seeing it. She forced herself to endure anyway.

  At first she tried to pretend it was some poorly made B-movie she had to review. But no director would have kept the camera focused on what Druas did to Mary Kelly. She’d seen cows butchered with less vicious brutality.

  In sheer self-defense she tried to think like
a cop, noting which hand he used and how deeply he cut. She wasn’t a forensic scientist, but it was obvious from the easy way he hacked into the body that the man’s strength was terrifying.

  Yet no matter how Jane fought to stay detached, her stomach heaved with every slice. Her head began to pound in deep, rhythmic surges in time to her heart. She felt dizzy. Locking her spine into a rigid column, she concentrated on staying upright.

  Every time Druas did something particularly nauseating, Jane was conscious of the cool, assessing gazes of Baran and the wolf. They’re wondering how long it will take me to pass out.

  She told herself savagely that she’d been exposed to carnage before. There’d been that shotgun murder last year, when she’d beaten the cops to the scene. She’d held it together then, despite the boneless sprawl of the body in the middle of the street, surrounded by blood and skull fragments. Yeah, it had haunted her, but she’d dealt with it.

  And God knew Jane had covered so many traffic fatalities she’d gone numb in sheer self-defense. Then there were all the murder trials she’d reported on. After hours spent listening to gruesome expert testimony about wounds and the suffering of the victims, she should have been inured.

  But none of that had prepared her for actually seeing it happen, listening to the killer hum in absent pleasure like a workman singing to himself over some pleasant task.

  As the endless seconds ticked past, Jane realized that watching this would leave scars she would carry in her mind until the day she died.

  It was only when Druas started cutting Mary’s heart out that she jumped up and whirled away. “When you catch this guy…” She had to stop to swallow bile. “Are you going to kill him, or just arrest him?”

  “I’m going to kill him.” Baran spoke with such utter emotionless conviction, she knew he meant every word.

  Jane took a deep breath. “Good.”

  None of the usual moral arguments about the rule of law or the value of even a murderer’s life meant anything when it came to Kalig Druas. He had to be eliminated just as a rabid dog has to be put down. Not for vengeance or even for justice, but simply because he was a threat to every other human being he met.