But there were subtle differences.
Subtle, disturbing differences.
For one, the security drones were everywhere. They looked like sleek chrome spiders the size of large dogs, their optical sensors shining harsh red. March spotted twin plasma cannons slung under their abdomens, mounted on a small turret for a full field of fire, stun weapons attached to their heads. Each one of the drones could kill dozens of men without much trouble, and March saw them scattered throughout the concourse, motionless as real spiders.
The shops themselves were also unsettling. There were the usual businesses that appeared on spaceports – starship maintenance and weapons and bars, though all of them looked expensive. Yet some of the shops offered goods that could not be found in any spaceport, at least not legally. One shop a wide variety of stimulants and narcotics, some so potent they could be lethal if mishandled in the slightest. Another store offered what its sign called “removal services,” which March knew was a polite euphemism for hired assassinations. One shop offered “hunting services,” which March knew involved hunting and killing humans for sport. Another was a brokerage for slaves. Still another business offered kidnappings, others dangerous genetic resequencing, another stolen bank information. Practically every crime was available for hire here.
High heels clicked against the floor, and March turned to look.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “I was afraid of that.”
“Afraid of what?” said Northridge, looking at everything with wide eyes.
“Our Guide’s genetically altered,” said March. “She’ll give off pheromones designed to inspire both lust and affection. Don’t let it cloud your thinking.”
Alan snorted. “I’m not a teenager. I don’t think…”
His voice trailed off.
A woman of stunning beauty approached them.
She wore a blue bandage dress that covered everything above the knee, but it did nothing to hide the perfection of her body, fit and toned without losing any feminine curves. Her pale skin was flawless, her black hair long and lustrous, her blue eyes wide and clear in her lovely face. She came to a stop a few paces away from them and smiled, her teeth white behind her red lips, though the smile did not touch her eyes. She was beautiful, so beautiful that she looked like an image created in a photo manipulation program, but she was real and standing before them in the flesh.
It disturbed March for two reasons.
First, she wore a delicate silver choker chain around her slender, perfect neck. The woman was a slave. Perhaps a privileged and even powerful slave of the Masters, but she was nonetheless a slave.
Second, her beauty was too perfect. It couldn’t have been created with diet and exercise, or plastic surgery, or even genetic therapy. Genetic therapy and plastic surgery could only change so much after a human passed puberty and reached adulthood. No, when this woman had been a girl, she had been ripped apart and altered, her genes resequenced, her endocrine systems upgraded, and her skeleton shattered and rebuilt, all so she would grow into a woman of stunning beauty.
It would have been a hideously painful process, and she had likely spent much of her childhood screaming and begging for death.
Just as the Machinists had ripped apart March and rebuilt him into a brutally efficient killer, so had the Masters taken this girl and ripped her apart to turn her into what she was now.
A wave of visceral loathing for the Masters went through March, but he forced aside all emotions.
“Captain Harper?” said the woman. Her voice was musical and soft and warm. There was an elaborate earring on her left ear but not her right. Likely it served as an earpiece, linking her to the station’s communications network.
“That’s right,” said March.
The woman offered a graceful, fluid bow, crossing her ankles and spreading her arms as she did. “It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Carina, and by the grace of the Masters, I will serve as your Guide during your stay at Burnchain Station. I am honored to meet the emissary from the sultan of Al-Khazmar. I will be happy to provide you with whatever you need or desire.”
Her words all but smoldered.
“Thank you,” said March. “But we are here on the sultan’s business. Let us proceed to the auction at once.”
He glanced at the others. November remained collected as ever, but Alan was staring at Carina, his face a bit red. Siegfried looked a little shell-shocked. Likely that was the pheromones. Northridge alternated between staring at Carina and glaring at Alan. She might have considered Alan a passing dalliance, but jealousy was not a rational emotion.
“As you desire,” said Carina. “Follow me, please. I shall be happy to answer any questions you might have.”
She started forward, and March’s eyes flicked, almost against his will, to her backside beneath the blue bandage dress. He grimaced and beckoned the others to follow, and he walked at Carina’s right side, so she would be in his peripheral vision.
“Tell me,” said March. “Where is the auction going to be held?”
“In one of the auditoriums off the main concourse,” said Carina. She somehow managed to glide elegantly while matching his brisk pace. “It is the only venue on the station large enough to accommodate all the Masters’ guests.”
“Is that right?” said March. Perhaps six hundred meters down the concourse he saw several large groups of both humans and aliens converging on a pair of doors. Likely that led to the auditorium complex. “How many different bidders are there?”
“Representatives from eighty-seven different governments and organizations have responded to the Masters’ invitations,” said Carina. She anticipated his next question. “Unfortunately, I cannot divulge any information about the Masters’ guests. Nevertheless, all shall attend the auction, and you may make observations there.”
“I see,” said March. “What do…”
“Oh my God!”
It was Northridge’s voice, filled with horror and disgust, and March whirled, hand dropping to his pistol.
Northridge had come to a stop at a store they had just passed. Behind the store’s front windows were a dozen pedestals, and on each pedestal stood a translucent, full-color hologram of a naked woman. Every woman had a collar and a chain leash around her neck and a gag in her mouth. Their elbows had been tied together behind their backs, forcing them to stand with their shoulders back and their chests thrust forward, and the discomfort of the position was obvious on their faces. Next to each woman floated a holographic menu listing the services available, ranging from the obvious to the depraved.
“What the hell is that?” said Northridge. She sounded sick.
“One of the brothels the Masters have licensed to operate on the station,” said Carina, still calm and pleasant. “The slaves within can perform the full list of services on the menu, so long as payment is tendered. Should you wish male slaves instead of female, those are…ah, there they are.”
The holograms flickered and changed to images of men bound and stripped in the same way as the women, the menu of services hovering next to each slave. After another moment the holograms shifted back to the women. March supposed it was like an automated billboard shifting from ad to ad.
“That’s sick,” said Northridge, clearly shaken. “That…dear God, why is one of the options killing and eating the slave?”
“That’s for alien races like the Ninevehk and the pantherax,” said March in a quiet voice, “who sometimes eat humans.”
Northridge stared at him, stricken. March had grown inured to the horrors that humans could inflict upon each other. But as he had said, Northridge had lived a sheltered life. And seeing this wretched place through her eyes…he had forgotten how shocking it could be to see such things for the first time.
His loathing for the Masters increased.
“Let’s go,” said March. “We need to attend to the sultan’s business.”
Northridge blinked, trying to hold back tears.
Siegfried put a ha
nd on her shoulder. “Come on, dear. The captain warned us we might see such things here.”
Siegfried nodded.
Carina smiled at them. “I’m afraid we don’t have the time now, but after the auction is complete, I will be happy to return you here to sample…”
“We are not interested in anything except business,” said March. “Please, let us continue.”
“Of course, Captain Harper,” said Carina, and they kept walking, leaving the slave brothel and its twisted promises behind.
They drew closer to the crowds near the auditorium doors, and March’s eye began picking out individual groups. Most of the attendees were human, men and women wearing formal or business attire. There were several groups of aliens as well, mostly representatives of races that either hated humans or had reputations for ruthlessness. One group, in particular, drew March’s attention. They each stood nine feet tall, and looked vaguely like humanoid hunting cats, with black-furred bodies and hands that ended in razor-sharp claws, heads with tufted ears, unblinking golden eyes, and muzzles filled with razor-sharp fangs. They were the pantherax, a powerful and technologically advanced alien race that preferred a nomadic existence, living off the tribute of conquered worlds rather than bothering with direct rule themselves. They had destroyed one of the old Terran Empires (the Second or the Third, March could not remember which) and had tried to conquer Calaskar several times. This group of pantherax wore elaborate formal robes of crimson and black, though beneath that March knew they wore body armor capable of stopping plasma bolts.
And Carina was walking right towards them. Was she doing it deliberately? Or didn’t she know?
“Stop,” said March.
“Pardon, Captain?” said Carina, smiling at him.
“You’re taking us right towards those pantherax,” said March.
“Do not worry,” said Carina. “The Masters prohibit violence between guests on Burnchain Station, and…”
“Listen,” said March, his voice hardening. “The pantherax are territorial. If we come too close to them, they will interpret it as aggression and attack. They will claim it is a deadly insult. Look. You see how all the others are staying out of their way?”
Carina started to speak and then faltered. For the first time, something like uncertainty went over the beautiful face. She blinked a few times and reached for her earring, confirming March’s earlier suspicion that it was a communication device.
“I…you are right, Captain Harper,” said Carina. “Thank you for your advice. I might have made a critical error.”
“Mistakes can happen,” said March, sharing a look with November. He saw his own suspicions mirrored there. Mistakes did happen…and sometimes they happened deliberately. Did the Masters want them dead in a convenient accident?
“Thank you for your consideration,” said Carina, pulling herself together. “This way, please.”
March glanced over the crowds, looking for anyone he recognized. There were a group of gaunt-looking men and women in gray suits who had the distinct look of Rustari Administrators. March kept his expression from twisting in contempt. No doubt one of the various factions of Administrators in the Renarchist Republic thought to deal with their Citizens through the use of the biomorphic fungi.
Behind the Rustari Administrators walked a dozen hard-looking men in business suits that did a poor job of concealing their shoulder holsters. In their midst walked a youngish-looking man in a far more expensive suit, his black hair slicked back, his beard close-cropped, his dark eyes glinting. March blinked a few times, and then recalled where he had seen that face before.
“That man surrounded by bodyguards,” he murmured to November. “That’s Alexei Murdan, isn’t it?”
“You are right,” said November.
“Who is Alexei Murdan?” said Northridge. She had recovered some of her poise, but her arms remained wrapped tightly around herself.
“I cannot divulge information about the Masters’ guests,” said Carina.
“He is one of the sons of President Paul Murdan of Oradrea,” said November.
“Or President-for-life Paul Murdan,” said March. “Alexei Murdan is currently the Interior Minister of Oradrea and one his father’s trusted lieutenants.”
The Murdan family had ruled Oradrea for centuries, and Paul Murdan was the latest corrupt dictator to reign over the planet. Like Mercator, Oradrea maintained strict neutrality in all interstellar conflicts. Unlike Mercator, Oradrea dealt with the Machinists, and the Murdans were the loyal bagmen of the Final Consciousness. Whenever the Machinists needed money laundered or something smuggled, they turned to the Murdans.
“Alexei Murdan is a faithful servant of his father,” said November, “who is also a faithful servant of his Machinist masters.”
“You saw that attack frigate near the station?” said March. “There is a Machinist emissary here. What they’ll probably do is set up a bidding war between their emissary and Alexei. If the Machinists win, they get the weapon. If the Oradreans win, they’ll just hand the fungi over to the Machinists.”
“That is their usual game,” said November.
“Yeah,” said March. Well, that made things simpler. If either the Oradreans or the Machinists won the auction, the fungi was going to the Machinists. The attack frigate was fast, but the Tiger was faster, and March could cut them off and get word to the Navy. Blowing the frigate to molten rubble might not be the approved way of destroying biomorphic fungi, but March was willing to give it a try.
“The auditorium entrance is there,” said Carina, pointing at the crowds forming up around a pair of opened double doors. A line formed as the various groups entered, all of them watching each other warily. Though everyone gave the pantherax a wide berth. “I suggest we wait until the pantherax enter to avoid any…misunderstandings.”
She swallowed, a vein pulsing in her temple. March suspected that she wasn’t acting. His warning had indeed frightened her. If she had been leading them to an “accident,” she had been a dupe.
“Good idea,” said March. “We…”
He fell silent, watching a group of seven men follow the pantherax at a safe distance.
Six of them wore black suits, their left hands concealed beneath black gloves, their hair grown slightly shaggy. March knew they had grown their hair to conceal the Machinist hive implants at the base of their skulls. The six men were Iron Hands, the elite commandos and agents of the Final Consciousness, some of the deadliest fighters in human space.
They were what March had once been.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Northridge flinch as she realized, saw Alan’s hand twitch towards the gun beneath his coat.
In the midst of the six men walked a seventh. Unlike the others, he wore a gray business suit, with a gray silk shirt and a gray silk tie. He looked older, at the late edge of middle age, and he had iron-gray hair and a close-cropped goatee of the same color. His face was lined and weathered, the face of a vigorous man who had spent a great deal of time outdoors, and a patch of gray metal concealed his left eye.
Save for the missing eye, he looked like a healthy, strong man of middle years…except for the black veins that spread beneath his face around the missing eye.
And March had always suspected that the eye wasn’t lost so much as it had been replaced by something else.
“That is him, isn’t it?” murmured November.
“Yes,” said March. “That’s Mr. Odin.”
“Mister…Odin?” said Siegfried, her confusion plain.
“Those six men around him are Iron Hands,” said March in a low voice. “The man in the gray suit has the code name of Mr. Odin. He’s one of the Cognarchs, the leaders of the Final Consciousness.”
In the one hundred thousand years of recorded human history, countless revolutions had overthrown governments and promised, at last, to make all men equal. But no matter how hard they tried, some men always ended up more equal than others, usually the most ruthless and the most corrupt. Eve
n the Machinists, with their cybernetic hive mind empowered by the ancient technology of the Great Elder Ones, were no different. The hive mind was allegedly one single gestalt, but the course of the hive mind was decided by the leaders of the Final Consciousness, and those leaders called themselves the Cognarchs.
“Odin?” said Siegfried. “Isn’t that a figure from pre-spaceflight earth?”
“A mythological figure,” said March. “He picked the code name himself. It probably amused him. He’s in charge of Machinist intelligence and covert ops.”
And he had once been March’s commander.
Just as March now followed the orders of Censor, so had he once followed the orders of Mr. Odin when he had still been an Iron Hand. There was a fair chance Odin might recognize March on sight. Well, that wouldn’t be an immediate problem. The Masters would only have Odin’s word that March’s credentials were forged, and they still wouldn’t allow violence between their guests. But leaving Burnchain Station might be tricky.
Especially if that attack frigate tried to stop them.
The Tiger could outrun it, but until they got away from Burnchain Station, they would be within range of the ship’s heavy weaponry.
Then March spotted the man walking behind the Iron Hands and Mr. Odin, a grizzled-looking middle-aged man who seemed like he would have been more comfortable in a crewer’s coverall than a business suit.
“Shit,” muttered March.
“I see him, too,” said November.
The last time March had seen that man, he had been unconscious on the floor of the conference room in that hotel on Exarch Station, carrying a forged ID card that identified him as Marco Skinner.
It looked like Skinner and his friends had indeed been Machinist agents.
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