Celestial Hit List

by Charles Ingrid

  The armor was there. It had been hosed off since he’d shed it, but Jack insisted on doing most of the shop work himself so little else had been done. He dropped the tapestry door closed behind him and was startled as two or three small green lizards raced across the ceiling at his entry. He tossed his bag into a corner where the duffel raised a cloud of dust motes that swirled in the bright light from his window. Jack frowned. Dust was death to the suit’s circuitry. He’d have to make sure the cadets got into the shop and vacuumed it down as well as they could.

  There was a scoring across one shoulder. He fingered it. One of the Bythians would never known how close he’d come to knocking down a Dominion Knight, he reflected. The norcite coating flaked up at the edge of the damage and Jack knew then that, without the norcite, he might have lost the whole arm. He must have taken a shell directly and not felt it.

  *Boss.*

  In spite of himself, Jack jumped. It had been so long since that deep-toned voice had run through his mind so clearly, the inner voice that sounded like stone rubbing stone: He grabbed for that fragile link, intending to reel it in, hoping to build a rapport that would allow him to see if the sentience did exist as more than an extension of himself.

  And, if it did, to see if it remembered Jack’s life from before.

  “Bogie—”

  “Captain Storm?”

  Jack whirled. Rawlins stood in the doorway, the tapestry draped across one shoulder like a formal cloak. The second lieutenant saluted, and added, “I hope I’m not bothering you, sir.”

  His hand trembled and he dropped it out of Rawlins’ line of sight. “Just going over my equipment. The first rule of armor is never to let a tech be more familiar with it than you are. I don’t want another man to be responsible for my survival.”

  Rawlins rubbed a hand through his shock of white-blond hair. He nodded. “I understand, sir. But you said… survival. Don’t you mean… victory? Or performance, as a soldier, I mean?”

  “That all depends on why you put on battle armor in the first place.”

  The young man grinned then. “I got it. Why you fight.”

  “Right.”

  “But you were a mercenary before getting into the guard.”

  “And I still am.”

  “Oh.” The second lieutenant hesitated another second longer until Jack prompted him.

  “What can I help you with, Rawlins?”

  The deepest of blue-eyed gazes pinned him. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you on the ship or tell you why I wanted to be your lieutenant. I, well, that is—I came to ask if you’re the one who knows about Claron.”

  Another icy touch reached Jack somewhere along the base of his head, where his spine met his skull. “Claron?”

  “Yes, sir. I heard that one of the Knights fought so that the emperor would hear about Claron and find out who had it burned off. I’ve been watching you, sir, and I think you’re that Knight.”

  “And if I am?”

  “Then I’m serving under the right man, sir. I’m proud to be serving under you. My father was one of those who lived long enough to be taken off, but he was going to send for us before it all happened. I have pictures he sent us, sir,” and Rawlins slipped the top button on his dress jacket, to reach inside for holos. “We had a colonization application in, when it was burned off.”

  Jack did not take the pictures, but the image danced in the air in front of him, and he felt a stinging sensation at the back of his throat. He did not look at the boy, wondering if he faced another Green Shirt, or just an idealistic cadet who’d become a Knight for many of the same reasons he had. “How is your father now?”

  “On disability, but he’s doing okay. He and my mom have another app in for another world.” Rawlins paused and a thoroughly disgusted look curdled his young features. “He says it was all politics, and that the burn-off was covered up and we’ll never know what happened. But I heard, when I joined, that one of the Knights was looking for the answers, and pressing the emperor, talking about terraforming even.” Rawlins’ voice died off as Jack turned away.

  Who had told him? Who stood in the background, manipulating all of them like waldos? “I suggest, lieutenant,” Jacks said, keeping his voice as even as he could, “that you concentrate on one world at a time. You’ll stay alive longer.”

  The holos went back into the inner pocket and Rawlins snapped off another salute. “Yessir.” He grinned. “But I’ve got the right man, haven’t I?”

  Jack nodded wearily. “Yes. I guess you have.”

  If Kavin and Jack had had any doubt that they’d been quartered in the poor end of town, it evaporated when they reached the embassy. The villa was a four-story, tiered extravaganza that had been adapted for Dominion security. Windows had been put in, shutting out the chilling night air as well as uninvited visitors, and the stuffy interior now made do with a series of solar fans for circulation. Some things, Jack reflected, as he pulled on the neckline of his dress uniform (too tight now, and he thought of the bandy-legged little tailor who’d threatened him on the parade grounds a few months ago) were not improved by innovation. But the rest of the villa was abundant with the riches of Bythia. Fragrances hung in the air, some sweet and flowery, others dank and musky. Tapestries and artwork adorned the open spaces between the columned walls, and headdresses of antiquity with their odd silklike strands of hair and feather sat on featureless statuary. It made walking around the reception wing difficult and Jack was only thankful he’d not been summoned in battle armor. He’d be graceful but much too bulky for the villa.

  Kavin caught him by the elbow. “Relax. Quit pacing.”

  Jack smiled ruefully. “I don’t like ceremonies.”

  “What soldier does? Amber will be here soon—that should take your mind off things.” Kavin released his arm. “Or maybe it won’t. She’s a pretty independent girl. I think she’s outgrown your role of guardian and protector.”

  Jack eyed Travellini another Knight who’d made captain in his absence, where he stood across the room. He said nothing, all too aware of the truth of his friend’s statement.

  “As one buddy to another,” Kavin added. “I’d make a decision rather than risk losing her.”

  His attention shot to his commander’s face. “It’s not for me to make,” Jack said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Kavin was distracted by Colin’s entrance, framed by Jonathan and a third man Jack had never met but knew by reputation. “Who’s that?”

  “Denaro. He’s supposed to be the quasi-general of the militant wing.”

  Kavin whistled softly. “I hope our reverend can keep that one under his thumb. I wonder how many weapons he has hidden under his robes of office?”

  Jack shrugged. “Not less than five he can get his hands on easily, is my guess.” He watched the trio walk across the room to join them, snagging drinks from the little servo wheeling across the floor with a tray. Militant Walkers made him uneasy. He’d faced them before. Religious fanatics fought with a zeal that almost matched that of the murderous Thraks. He sipped at his own drink. “How about I handle Amber and you handle the diplomatic intrigue?”

  “Think you’re up to it?”

  “Barely,” he answered Kavin’s ironic tone. He smiled as Colin came within earshot. “Your reverence. Nice to be seeing you again.”

  “Amber’s late,” Colin said. “Doing her hair up. We lost her somewhere just inside the foyer en route to the ladies quarters. She should be out in a minute.”

  Jack smiled at that. Amber had a deft touch with hair and makeup, as part of her activities on Malthen’s streets. She could range her age almost anywhere from pre-teens to the sixties if she wished. Accenting her natural beauty, however, was the skill Jack liked best.

  Colin pressed a sheaf of papers into Kavin’s hand instead of shaking it. “I promised you these, but I suggest you wait until you’re on more neutral ground to examine them thoroughly.”

  “Indeed,” Kavin answered. His silvery eyebrow arched in i
rony. The embassy was supposed to be the most neutral ground in Sassinal or, for that matter, the southern hemisphere of Bythia. He opened his tunic seal to stow the papers away, but paused as he glanced at the top one. “Holy mother,” he said.

  Jack peered over his shoulder. The computer simulated photo hit him like a gut-punch. Pink and beige sand swirled out from the midst of a green belt. Kavin hurriedly stuffed the papers into his jacket’s interior pocket.

  “Thraks,” Storm said, and his voice sounded choked to his own ears. “That’s a Thrakian sand crèche. They’re already establishing a foothold here.”

  Kavin pitched his voice very low. Jack knew that soft and deadly tone. “What do you know about Thrakian sand crèches?” the commander asked.

  “As much as you do. Enough to know there shouldn’t be sign of one on Bythia.” Jack fought to get a grip on himself. Over his shoulder, he saw the curious expression on Colin’s face and knew the Walker could neither hear their voices now nor had he recognized the phenomena from the aerial photos before he handed them over. The two Knights were in possession of intelligence sensitive material that could easily get either one or both of them killed.

  “Where would you have seen one?”

  Jack looked back steadily. “There are places,” he answered, “where one can see just about anything in the universe.”

  Kavin had put a hand on his wrist and held him, too tightly. Jack did not allow himself to flinch. “I think,” he said, raising his voice, “I’ll go look for Amber.”

  “Good idea,” Colin seconded. “I heard the dinner bell. The ambassador should bring us into the main rooms in a few moments. Wait a minute—there she is.”

  She came to a hesitant pause in the doorway, and even clear across the room, Jack could feel her impact on him. Beside him, Kavin sucked in his breath as well. She wore blue tonight, her gown undershot with tones of green, setting off the dark honey color of her hair, which she wore up and set with a jeweled band, letting tendrils plume out in imitation of a Bythian headdress. The result was more than spectacular.

  “A beauty,” Colin murmured, but Kavin made a low sound in his throat like a growl, interrupting, “and there’s the beast,” as Thraks moved in behind her, framing Amber’s delicate looks with their chitin bestiality.

  Their scent filled Jack’s throat like smoke. He tried to swallow and ended up coughing. Kavin thumped his back in sympathy. The other Knights around the room froze in their dress uniforms, and as Jack looked up, eyes watering, he realized that most of them did not know what it was to face a Thraks in battle.

  Amber acted as if she did not know the Thraks were behind her and drifted across the reception room to his side. Then she turned to look back and as he took her hand, he saw the light gooseflesh on her arms. She hated the aliens almost as much as he did, and not entirely for his sake.

  Behind the Thraks bobbled a man, dark-skinned and wrapped in white robes, his bald pate shining in the lantern light.

  Colin smiled. “Dr. Quaddah!” He approached the man, saying, “The good doctor is Special Envoy here.”

  “Sir—” Jonathan muttered, as the saint did not notice the immediate bristling and rearing of the Thrakian contingent as the human approached. Dhurl’s face settled into a hideous mask.

  Dr. Quaddah dodged around the trio and came forward to grasp Colin’s hands. Both Amber and Kavin let out a low sigh of relief. Jack was not sure that the Thraks would have shot Colin for approaching them, but he was not totally sure that they wouldn’t have either. Meanwhile the saint and the doctor had gone from vigorous pumping of hands to a brotherly hug.

  Colin broke away with a boyish grin. “Anything you want to know about Bythia, the doctor knows. I’ve been waiting days to meet him.”

  Kavin eyed Jack but said nothing. Jack read his mind as if his friend and commander had spoken. How had he known about sand crèches?

  Colin brought the doctor over as the Thraks entered and made themselves conspicuous in a corner of the reception hall. Amber relaxed slightly on Jack’s arm and then tensed again.

  A last guest walked into the hall, his aroma wafting before him. It was sharp as wood smoke and distinctive as herbs. His headdress and feathered arms and ankles wavered as though a whirlwind surrounded him. Jack frowned and looked down at Amber.

  “Who is that guy? Didn’t I see him at touchdown this morning?”

  “Briefly. He’s a High Priest. He was there to purge you of your sins of war,” she answered.

  Dr. Quaddah lost his happiness but stayed at Colin’s side. The holy man asked, “How powerful is he?” of the doctor.

  “With all the factions on Bythia, who knows? But he’s the leader of the group waiting for the Third Age and he’s powerful enough here in the south, where the religion borders on the fanatic.”

  Colin’s mild eyes grew sharper. “And what of the religion?”

  “We must talk, St. Colin, but tonight is not the time. I’ll tell you this… I have heard of things, and seen things, that can’t be explained easily.”

  “Really,” Colin murmured.

  The High Priest stayed framed in the doorway, aware he was the center of all attention. Even the Thraks forgot their paranoia over the Knights long enough to pinion their attention on him.

  “What’s the Third Age?” Amber blurted out, and he looked down to see her face had paled and she was taking great pains not to look at the High Priest.

  Dr. Quaddah’s brown face was a network of wrinkles, some of humor and others of pain. He looked sympathetic. “I cannot talk here, young lady. Suffice it to say, that what you have been told of this world isn’t true. These are not barbarians we face—”

  Jack thought of Lassaday’s assessment.

  “—what is done here is done because of the errors of past civilizations and centuries. The scavengers outside the cities are called surfas. Do you know what that means in Bythian?”

  She shook her head, the curls of her hair waving in mockery of the High Priest’s headdress.

  “Mistakes. The ontology of the word alone suggests that the creatures were manufactured, not evolved. And so the Bythians suffer them to live—even feed them, as dangerous as they are.”

  “Genetic mistakes.”

  “Perhaps.” Dr. Quaddah coughed politely and turned away as the High Priest took a mincing step in their direction.

  The conversation lulled until the Bythian reached them. His scent mellowed even as it surrounded them. Jack did not find it unpleasant, but at the same time knew he would never forget it if he lived to leave Bythia. Reptilian, he thought, as the alien’s sideways slanted eyes widened a little to observe him. To hell with the platypus theory. It amused him a moment, to think of buglike Thraks trying to dominate a reptilian culture, particularly one as belligerent as this one was.

  He took the creature’s observation silently, wondering if the alien thought much the same of him.

  Dr. Quaddah said, “Gentlemen and my lady Amber, may I present the Omnipotent Hussiah.”

  The High Priest sketched a movement too sinuous for them to mimic. Jack might have tried had he been wearing battle armor, famed for its suppleness, just to see the surprise on the alien’s countenance. He saw now, up close, what he had not seen in the battle he’d fought that morning: the face of Bythia.

  The mouth that was part of a snout stretched into a smile. “The young lady asks of Third Age, my hatch-mate Quaddah? Why not be telling of it?”

  The doctor’s dark face lightened a little. His surprise could be easily read by anyone in the room, and Jack was aware the Thraks watched them closely. “I did not think it proper to cant your religion for dinner party chatter.”

  The Bythian inclined his head, and the beauty of his headdress wavered on that unseen breeze surrounding him. Aura? Energy?

  Kavin muttered next to Jack’s ear, “This fellow puts new meaning into charisma.” Jack had no answer for that one.

  But the girl at his side seemed mesmerized. “I—I did not mean to
offend.”

  “You did not,” Hussiah told Amber. He blinked. “We await the Resurrection. With it comes our Third Age. Without it, the death of all Bythia.”

  The ambassador chose that stunned moment to enter the reception hall and announce dinner.

  Jack did not like filing into a relatively closed room with Thraks at his back. He could feel his senses roaring as adrenaline began to pump, and he looked for ways out among the columns and tapestry walls. Amber looked up at him. She smiled tentatively as though she sensed his distress. If he could have noticed, he would have seen her own distress, but he was too blinded by his.

  The end of the dining table had been modified greatly to accommodate the Thraks. Jack looked at it, saw that the modification had not been a hasty jury-rig, and knew that the Thraks dined here often, or at least often enough to make the arrangements permanent. His stomach churned at the thought of witnessing Thrakian dining habits.

  Colin bumped his arm slightly and said, “Sorry, dear boy.” Under his breath, he whispered, “There was a man in the far corner, shadowed. Perhaps I’m losing my nerve in my old age…”

  Jack looked sharply away from the Thraks to the opposite end of the room where shadows hid the kitchen entrance. The ambassador himself, large, jolly, dressed in formal clothes, and wreathed with smiles, partially blocked the view. Jack rubbed his forehead and, out of his peripheral vision, saw a slight movement.

  Someone was there who did not belong. Why hadn’t Amber, always so security minded, sensed it? Amber had always seen potential ambushes long before they happened.

  Or perhaps he and Colin were just unnerved. This was, after all, the embassy.

  Amber seated herself in a swirl of light blue. The shadowed figure disappeared even as Jack tried to focus on it. “Jack?” she looked up.

  “Just a moment.” Jack did not answer, but strode away from Kavin and the others as forcefully as he could, reaching the columnar doorway where he stood under a fan, feeling its tiny breeze wash across his sweat filmed face. He clenched a shaking hand tighter about his glass. He gulped a few deep breaths, then looked up.