The Sudden Star

by Pamela Sargent

  Ortega finished the beer, hurried up the steps to the lobby, and paused at the door. Her neck prickled. The tiny lobby was different tonight, emptier. Two old men sat in a corner next to a rubber plant. The night manager, a tall, big-boned woman with graying hair, sat in back of the desk, reading a comic. Ortega bent her shoulders a bit and ambled inside and over to the desk. She leaned on it, feigning a tired yawn. The night manager put down her comic and looked up. Her eyes widened slightly. She heaved herself off the stool to get Ortega's room key.

  Ortega said, "I'm checking out tomorrow morning." The manager paused, then turned toward her. There was an expression in her eyes that Ortega couldn't read. She yawned again while watching the woman from lowered lids. "I'll pay you now, all right?"

  The manager smiled broadly. "I have to get the records, I'll be back in a minute." She disappeared into the nearby office. Ortega glanced quickly at the two old men. They were still absorbed in their card game. She leaned over the desk, peering at the keys hanging on the wall. There should have been three keys there for room 207, her room. There were only two.

  The manager came out of the office. Ortega signed the bill and paid the woman. "You hafta be out by noon," the manager said, handing Ortega a key. "You can give this to Davey tomorrow. I hope you enjoyed your stay. Would you like to leave a forwarding address?"

  "No." Ortega pocketed the key. "Is the elevator still out of order?"

  The manager shrugged apologetically. Ortega crossed the lobby and opened the door to the stairwell. She closed it. The stairwell was only dimly lighted. She listened for a moment and heard nothing. She pulled out her revolver and put a silencer on the barrel. Her thoughts raced. Isabeau had sent her here to get her things. She had known she would be here. She crept up the stairs silently. She had nothing in the room except a few clothes; she kept her jewels in her belt and her papers in her pocket. She did not have to go to the room at all. But she had to settle this business now, send a message to whoever was after her that she would not be that easy to kill. She ground her teeth; whoever it was must think her very stupid. She went up the next flight and stopped by the door, pressing her ear against it. At least one person had to be in her room; she hoped another wasn't waiting in the hall. She crouched, pulled the door open, and rolled quickly into the hallway. It was empty.

  Breathing more easily, she put her revolver away. She longed to use it on Isabeau Rasselle, or that bitch downstairs, who probably would have already called upstairs to the room if the intercom system had been working. She leaned against the wall, considering her options. Her room was at the other end of the hall, just around the corner.

  She walked quietly over the cracked linoleum and stopped at room 215. She knocked on the door and waited. At last it opened. A young brown-haired man, his shirt open to the waist, stared at her and smiled.

  "Well, hello," he said.

  "Hello," she answered. She searched for words; she wasn't very good at this. She tried to smile.

  "What do you want?"

  "Oh, I think I want the same thing you do. I've got some time. Nights get lonely. I hope you aren't busy."

  He narrowed his eyes. "You sure as hell weren't so friendly when I made the moves last week."

  "I changed my mind."

  "Well, all right." He put a hand on her. She forced herself not to pull away, hating the feel of it. "Come on in."

  "Let's go to my room, I've got some gin."

  "I got gin."

  "Listen," she said, "it's a thing I have. I like to be in my own room."

  He shrugged. He went back inside, got his key, and came back out, locking the door. They went down the hall. He put his arm around her waist and gave it a squeeze. Sickened, she forced herself to rub his back, then handed him her key. They rounded the corner. They stopped in front of her door. He released her and began to unlock it. She stepped behind him and put her hand on her gun. He opened the door and went inside. She flattened herself against the wall as a hand with a gun came down on the man's head, knocking him to the ground.

  He seemed to crumble slowly, falling forward. Ortega grabbed the hand and pulled it, hurling the assassin across the room. The figure fell against the dresser, yelping in pain. Ortega aimed and fired, aided by the dim lighting in the hall. She heard a moan. She fired again at where the head should be. The room was silent. She waited.

  She heard footsteps in the hall. She pulled the man inside, then closed the door, kicking it with her foot. She scurried to the night table next to the bed and turned on a lamp.

  A woman's body sat against the dresser. Her hands were over her bloody chest. Under the hole in her forehead, her gray eyes stared blankly at Ortega. The footsteps were closer now. She aimed her gun at the door, then recognized the shuffling limp of an old man who lived down the hall. She heard him shuffle by, then stop to unlock his own door.

  She crawled over to the young man. She leaned over him. His breathing seemed shallow. She checked his pulse. It beat feebly. He was badly injured, she realized gratefully. She would not have to waste a bullet finishing him off. She got up and stared at her would-be killer. The woman must have been an amateur, a free-lance, coming here like this.

  She paced the tiny room. Now she had two bodies to worry about and no assurance the woman had acted alone. She could have an associate outside. The night manager might have been only bribed, or might be more involved. She could not go out through the lobby. She clasped her hands, took several deep breaths, and felt better.

  There was no problem, no problem at all. She was on the second floor, she could go out the window. She went to the bed, pulled out her knife, and cut a slit in the mattress. She picked up the bottle of gin on the night table and sprinkled the sheets, then took a swig. She went to the window and opened it, gauging the distance to the ground. There was soft grass below; a small path led to the street. It seemed quiet.

  She turned back, pulled out some matches, lit one, and tried to get a fire going in the mattress. She had to light several before it finally began to smolder. Before anyone would be able to piece things together, she would at least buy some time. She waited, forcing herself to be patient. At last she saw flames. By the time anyone noticed the fire, the room would be ablaze, the wood furniture burning.

  She went out the window, hung by her hands, then let go. She dropped to the ground and felt a twinge in her foot. She leaned over and felt it; she had only pulled a muscle. Then she ran.

  Isabeau Rasselle had told her to be back at the house in the morning. Ortega waited in a rickshaw across the street, wondering what she was going to do, staring at the palm trees that almost hid the house from her view. It was morning; her eyelids felt gritty. The smart thing would be to hide out. Coming here was risky, but she longed for a confrontation, and she doubted anyone was looking for her in this neighborhood. At any rate, she had the advantage; Isabeau, if she knew anything, would assume she was dead.

  An old car was chugging up the road. Ortega slouched under the hood of the rickshaw, hiding her face. The puller sat on the curb, drinking a beer. The car, an old blue Lincoln, powered by hydrogen, gasped to a stop. It was one of Echeverria's cars; she'd seen it before. Isabeau got out and the car pulled away, turning to go back down the curving street. Isabeau was coming home late from another party.

  Ortega jumped from the rickshaw, threw the driver a coin, and ran across the street to the blond woman, trying to reach her before Isabeau got to the intercom and asked a guard to let her in the gate that surrounded the house. She came up to her and stopped. Isabeau turned, threw back her violet hood, and smiled.

  "Gilberto," she said, "I didn't expect to see you here so early." Ortega felt stunned. The woman didn't seem at all surprised. "Come on in, we'll have some breakfast."

  "Let's take a walk first," Ortega answered.

  "All right. I could use some air." She drew her violet cape around her. Ortega wondered if she was armed. They walked past the gate and down the sidewalk. Ortega, bewildered now, tried to decide
what to do. It was possible that Isabeau knew nothing. Ortega kept her hand near her gun. "I wanted to speak to you privately anyway," Isabeau went on. "Did you sign anything with Giorgiados?"

  "I signed the standard agreement for free-lancers," Ortega answered carefully.

  "Then you owe him money." Isabeau gestured at a bench on the sidewalk. The two women sat down. "I'm thinking of buying out your contract, Gilberto. I don't want divided loyalties, and I assume Giorgiados asked you to keep him informed. Don't worry, I'll give him enough so he won't feel bad. I need a bodyguard, someone I can trust, not someone working for my father or Titus. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

  Isabeau was watching her carefully. Ortega nodded. If Isabeau meant it, she might actually be safer working for the Rasselles; she would be under their protection. "I can help you," the blond woman said. "But I have to trust you. No one, not even the police, seems to know anything about you. Anita Gilberto isn't your real name, is it?"

  Ortega stiffened. She was being tested and she didn't know the right answer. She was silent, studying Isabeau. She felt closed in, trapped. Whoever had tried to kill her would try again, unless she could maneuver herself into a stronger position, and to do that she would have to take a chance. "No," she said at last, "it isn't my real name."

  "What is it?" Isabeau gestured impatiently. "Come on. It doesn't matter anyway, you have papers."

  "Kathleen Ortega." The name didn't seem to mean anything to Isabeau. "I'm from New York."

  "I guessed that from your accent. What did you do?"

  "I was kind of a businesswoman, I ran quite a large organization. I lost control, I had to come here." She paused and took Isabeau's arm. "Someone here is trying to kill me, someone I think was hired by people in New York. You wouldn't know anything about that now, would you?"

  Isabeau's arm muscles were relaxed. She had not tensed or tried to pull away. "No, I don't."

  "How about Titus, does he know?"

  "Titus doesn't get involved in things like that anymore." Isabeau's mouth puckered, as if she had tasted something sour. "He's been making himself more respectable." The violet eyes glittered. Ortega released her arm. Hate was in those eyes. Isabeau shook her head; her eyes cleared. "What did you do before you went—into business? I saw you on Giorgiados's shooting range, and you don't shoot like a businesswoman."

  "The kind of business I was in, you did." Ortega chuckled. "I was in the army before that."

  Isabeau looked surprised. "Down here, someone in the army stays in for life."

  "They do up there, too. But I saw the way things were going. Up at the top, the generals and everybody were keeping the old customs. Where I was, the soldiers were bitching all the time, saying it was too much trouble having women soldiers, having to send us to the doctors to get plugged, as soon as we were old enough to bleed, so we couldn't get pregnant. And then because of all the bitching, morale started getting bad, and they started blaming us for that too. It was getting to where the lieutenants were sending the women into the bad spots and keeping the good forays for themselves, the ones where there'd be plenty of loot. I saw the way it was going. I was one of the best where I was, and I only got as far as sergeant. So I left. For two years after, I was paying them off for letting me leave."

  Isabeau nodded, as if she understood, though she could not possibly understand, leading her kind of life and being protected from everything. "Why'd you join then?"

  Ortega sighed, not wanting to dwell on all this; it made her stomach feel tight and brought on an anger she couldn't release, having nowhere to direct it. "I joined the way most people do. I don't know how it is here. My parents left me outside a base. I was about three, so I don't remember it. This drill instructor named Ortega found me, that's how I got my name. He put me in a platoon of kids he was training. Kids always make the best soldiers, everybody knows that. I wasn't afraid of anything then."

  "Are you now?"

  "I'm afraid of getting killed, but everybody is."

  Isabeau got up. "It's getting warm out here, and I'm tired. Let's go in."

  "You go in." Ortega rose. "I'm going to hole up for a bit. You buy out my contract with Giorgiados first. I know a guy there who'll tell me when it's done, and then I'll come here."

  "You still don't trust me."

  Ortega started walking toward the rickshaw. "You buy out my contract and I'll trust you."

  Ortega followed Isabeau into the suite. It was still early; three pretty young women slouched near the bar, two middle-aged men in pastel suits sat near the door. She felt warm, and her new denim shirt and jeans felt stiff. She reached up and loosened the violet ascot at her throat. Isabeau made her way to a corner by the window, where a round little man with dark, curly hair sat in a wicker chair. He smiled at Isabeau as she patted his hand. The guard standing behind his chair raised an eyebrow at Ortega.

  "This is my new bodyguard," Isabeau said in a high, light voice completely unlike the tone she used with Ortega. "I went to a lot of trouble to get her, Titus."

  Titus Echeverria glanced at Ortega. "Very nice, dear. Why don't you take her to a doctor, see if you can do something about that scar?" Ortega, proud of her scar, remained silent. Unlike those women at the bar, who probably sold themselves to all comers, she didn't need prettiness.

  Isabeau turned and went to the window, looking out at the ocean. Her perfect features were an expressionless mask. Ortega stood near her, gazing at the clear sky, so unlike New York's. She couldn't see where the sea ended and the sky began. The stars were out; Mura's Star was on the horizon now, rising, the star old Ortega had told her had changed the world, God's sign and God's judgment. Ortega, who didn't believe in God except when she thought she might die, saw only a star like the others. Men and women did what they had to do, and no star would ever change that.

  She did not know what Isabeau had planned for Echeverria, but she was sure it wasn't a happy home. The blond woman had not confided in her yet, but she had heard a rumor about a dead man who was to have married Isabeau, heard it while she was hiding out, waiting for Isabeau to buy out her contract. The stylish surface hid something.

  Isabeau needed her for a reason. Sooner or later she would confide in Ortega. She would help the blond woman if she could, while establishing her own position. But this time she would not act too soon, as she had with René.

  "I want to sit down for a moment," Isabeau murmured. Ortega followed her across the room. Isabeau sat near the door, smoothing her lavender dress. She looked even paler than usual; her face was drawn.

  "Can I get you a drink?" Ortega asked. Isabeau shook her head. Ortega stood behind the chair.

  A man entered the room. Ortega raised an eyebrow. The man, dressed in a white suit, was Simon Negron. He began to walk toward them, then halted uncertainly. He approached them more slowly. He nodded to Isabeau.

  "Good evening, Doctor," Isabeau said in her high little voice. She waved one end of her long violet scarf at Ortega. "My new bodyguard."

  Ortega said, "Good evening, sir." Negron's mouth tightened. She saw the fear in his eyes, and smiled.

  TEN

  Isabeau Rasselle

  Aisha sat on the examination table, buttoning her red dress. "What have I got, Simon?"

  "Just migraine. I'll give you some pills for it. I have some stuff around here somewhere."

  "Maybe it's cancer," she said bleakly.

  He sighed. "No, it's not." He looked away from her and toyed with his stethoscope. "When I left New York, there weren't as many cases. People don't get it as much now."

  "Why not?"

  Simon wondered if she was really curious or just trying to draw him into conversation, so she could spend a little more time with him. "I don't know. A doctor I knew who read a lot of history told me a lot of cases were caused by the radioactive fallout from wars in Europe and Asia, and since there hasn't been a war like that for a long time now, there isn't as much cancer. Do you even know what I'm talking about?"

  "I know,"
she answered. "I once read a couple of books that talked about it. One of them had these people in it with two heads, or hair all over, or—"

  "I never saw that. Anyway, that wasn't the only theory. I heard others. More people used to work in factories with substances that caused cancer, and they don't now. They used to put chemicals in food that caused it, and they don't anymore. I don't know which story is true." He paused. "At any rate, it just shows there's always some good with the bad. Maybe we can't do everything those people could do, but we don't have their diseases either." He recalled the cancer patients he had seen in the medical center, the disfiguring lumps and warts of skin cancer, the scarred chests and abdomens after surgery, the shaved bandaged heads of those with brain tumors, the frail leukemia victims, often children, the ugly puckered tissue where breasts had once been. It had all been on the surface; inside, behind their eyes, he could see human minds, reason, love, fear, despair, faith, anger, and resignation. Now there weren't as many. Now there was Mura's Syndrome, and perfectly formed human bodies hiding the pain, and minds which would disintegrate into those of beasts. It was as if the disease had cloaked itself in beauty, then burrowed deep inside. Even in the last stage of fever and madness, the victims, with their burning eyes, were compellingly attractive, like the thick, green weeds which now flourished, choking other plants, or the perfumed flowers that made one sick. Mura's Syndrome stripped them down to what they really were: animals in human form.

  He shook his head, disturbed. These were Linda Pura's thoughts. He had heard them from her often; they had hidden in his mind, cloaked in forgetfulness, only to emerge when he could not bear to think them. He looked at Aisha and felt a twinge. He wondered how long it would take for Mura's Syndrome to run its course inside her. He knew that was what it was, even if her symptoms—the headaches, the increased sensitivity to noise—could be signs of something else. She seemed sane enough at the moment, sitting there on his table. She might be that way for a while. Well, he wasn't going to be the one to tell her. There was no point to it. She could be dangerous to him if she believed she had nothing to lose, upset everything. He had enough worries.