Norr had no more than sat down and heard the lock click, when Lysander took another run at her. The discarnate entity seemed very agitated, even for him, but the sensitive had no intention of allowing him through. What if the guards came for her only to discover that she was busy channeling the lunatic who had once been her father? No, that wouldn’t do at all.
So Lysander pushed, Norr pushed back, and the two of them were at what amounted to a psychic impasse when the lock clicked and the door swung open. In place of Captain Tovar, who the sensitive expected to see, was a long-faced majordomo. He was dressed in a loose-fitting high-collared black tunic that fell well below his hips, trousers to match, and a pair of pointed slippers. He introduced himself as Simms and produced a bow so modest it was little more than a slight inclination of his torso. “The prince will receive you now.”
A heavy weight rode the pit of Norr’s stomach as she forced a smile, stood, and followed the servant out into the hall. Two members of the palace guard followed as the sensitive was led out into the formal passageway that circled the building and from there into the chamber where Prince Palo and his family preferred to receive unofficial guests.
Unlike the throne room that Norr had imagined, it was furnished with comfortable-looking furniture, and the walls were lined with thousands of leather-bound books. A large pair of double doors fronted what the sensitive imagined to be a terrace and stood slightly ajar. Her arrival went almost entirely unnoticed as the prince threw both doors open and stood between them. His voice was angry. “What’s going on out there? Who’s making that noise?”
Norr had been so focused on her own situation up till that point that she hadn’t noticed the insistent thump! thump! thump! of drums interspersed with the occasional almost discordant blare of distant trumpets. It was a strange sound—yet oddly familiar at the same time. The majordomo looked unperturbed. “The red hats have entered the public gardens, sire. They are staging some sort of religious celebration—or so I am told.”
“Well, they can damned well celebrate somewhere else,” the prince fumed, as he closed the doors. “Inform Captain Tovar . . . Tell him to chase the beggars away.”
Simms nodded gravely. “Do you want them arrested, sire? The captain will want to know.”
The nobleman shook his head. “No, let them go. We can rely on the black hats to keep them in check. If only my father and brothers were so easy to deal with.”
Norr felt her pulse beat a little faster. The red hats! Was that a matter of coincidence? Or, were Rebo and Lee connected to the commotion somehow? And if so, to what end? There was no way to know.
“So,” Prince Palo said as he turned his back to the doors. Except for his nose, which was a little too large, he was a handsome man and well aware of it. He was dressed in a white jacket, red sash, and black pants. His back was ramrod straight, and his voice was stern. “We have a visitor . . . What’s your name?”
“Norr, sire,” the sensitive responded. “Lanni Norr.”
“Thank you for coming,” the princess said, speaking for the first time. “I know it’s late.”
Norr turned to look at the other woman. They were approximately the same age, or so it seemed, although Princess Sema was prettier. She wore a lime green headdress, a filmy half veil, and a dress that fell gracefully around her. She was seated on a couch. Two children, both young, played at her feet. The noblewoman’s words made it sound as if Norr had merely been inconvenienced rather than snatched from her bed. Was that intentional? A device calculated to make Norr feel more like a guest than a prisoner? Or was the princess so insulated from reality that she thought it was true? The sensitive decided that it didn’t make much difference. She dropped a curtsy. “You’re welcome, highness.”
The prince dropped into a chair. Neither he nor his wife invited Norr to sit. “We have consulted all manner of psychics,” Palo observed coldly. “But none were variants. Perhaps you would be so kind as to elaborate on the nature of your paranormal abilities.”
“Some sensitives can see those who have departed this plane of existence for the next,” Norr responded carefully. “Others have the ability to sample past lives, or view events from a distance. Still others can hear discarnate entities speak, cause small items to fly through the air, or heal by the laying on of hands.
“As for my particular talents I am clairaudient, clairvoyant, and have the ability to leave my body for short periods of time, thereby allowing spirit entities to occupy it.”
“Others have made similar claims,” the nobleman responded skeptically. “How can we tell which claims are true?”
“Those who have genuine talents can provide evidence of that fact,” the sensitive responded. “Information that only a real channel could produce.”
“Can you give us an example?” Princess Sema inquired as she lifted her son up onto her lap.
“Yes,” Norr replied as her eyes lost focus, “I think I can. Please remember that while I see images of people from time to time, they can change their appearance just as we can, which means that a picture may or may not resemble the way a particular entity looked during his or her most recent incarnation. Furthermore, some of the things that I am shown are symbolic, which means that while they have little significance for me, they may be meaningful to you.
“For example,” the sensitive continued, as she stared at a point above the prince’s head, “I see a three-headed snake. It’s at war with itself as each head attempts to inject venom into the others. In the background I hear laughter, as if someone is watching the battle, and thinks it’s funny.”
“Your father,” the princess said, spitting the second word out as if it might be poisonous.
Palo refused to take the bait but eyed the sensitive instead. “You call that proof?” he demanded cynically. “Everyone knows that my father takes pleasure in setting his sons against each other. You could have obtained that information on any street corner.”
“Wait, sire,” the sensitive cautioned, “there’s more. I see the figure of a man. I can’t discern his features, but I sense that he’s older than you are, and a little bit taller. He stands with both hands extended palms up. A crescent moon floats above one—and a sphere hovers over the other. As I watch I see his fingers close around the sphere. I don’t know what those symbols mean, but a voice tells me that you do.”
There was a sharp intake of breath at the mention of the crescent moon, and Sema brought a hand up to cover her mouth. Her husband nodded as if in agreement. “Zaster, my eldest brother, was born with a red crescent on his ankle. Such a mark is said to portend evil. No one beyond the members of immediate family is aware of it.”
“The sphere starts to crumble as his fingers close around it,” Norr continued, “and what looks like sand falls away.”
“It’s the planet,” the princess whispered. “He plans to control it.”
“Yes,” the sensitive agreed. “The voice agrees with you . . . But the scene changes again as a dagger shimmers, only to be transformed into the likeness of a man. A man who extends one hand in greeting while keeping the other hidden behind his back.”
And it was then, just as Norr was about to continue, that Lysander launched a surprise attack. Suddenly, without warning, the sensitive felt the discarnate entity push her out and was forced to go along for the ride as the spirit who had once been known as Hios charged across the room. Simms saw the sensitive coming, but it was too late by then, and the majordomo collapsed as Norr-Lysander fell on top of him. “He has a gun!” Lysander yelled at the top of Norr’s lungs. “Help me!”
But the prince had pulled on a cloth-covered rope by then, and Norr was little more than a distant observer as half a dozen bodyguards entered the room, and jerked her body up off the floor. Palo was on his feet by then and furious. “This is your proof? An unprovoked attack on one of my servants? Take her away.”
“No!” Lysander insisted. “He has a gun! And look at his right ankle. That’s where you will find the mark of his t
rue master.”
The prince was about to refuse when the doors to the garden were thrown open and four red-clad Dib Wa entered. They were armed with razor-sharp swords and, judging from the way they moved, knew how to use them. The royal bodyguards were just starting to turn toward the new threat when Rebo appeared. Both of his weapons were drawn, and he leveled them at the guards. “Hold it right there . . . I don’t want to shoot anyone, but I will if I have to.” Lee emerged from behind the runner and stood with one knife ready to throw.
Norr, who was still “standing” slightly outside of her body, felt a sudden sense of warmth suffuse her being. Rebo had come to her rescue, in spite of the fact that it was stupid to do so and would almost certainly result in disaster.
“That’s right,” Lysander declared righteously. “Hold it right there. Now, search that man and take his weapon. Once he’s disarmed take a look at his right ankle.”
The lead bodyguard made eye contact with the prince, saw the royal nod, and turned to his men. “All right . . . Search him.”
Simms turned to flee but was brought down by a flying tackle. A struggle ensued, the now-desperate servant was brought under control, and one of the guards emerged from the melee holding a pistol. “Look! He was armed! Just like the seer said!”
“That’s not all,” a second bodyguard proclaimed. “Look at this!”
Prince Palo frowned as he made his way over to the spot where one of his most senior servants lay pinned to the floor. Though already shocked to discover that the majordomo was carrying a weapon, the nobleman was completely taken aback when he saw the man’s bared ankle and the red crescent moon that was tattooed there. The same mark that his eldest brother had been born with, subsequently adopted as his personal sigil and placed on all his property. No wonder his brother always seemed to be two steps ahead of him. He knew everything in advance!
The prince could hear the blood pounding in his ears and was so angry that he felt a bit dizzy as he extended a hand. “The pistol . . . Give me the pistol.”
There was a sudden flurry of activity as the princess sent her personal maid and both of her children out of the room. The previously haughty spy was sobbing by then, as the prince wrapped his fingers around the weapon and felt for the trigger. The royal had brought the handgun around, and was holding the barrel only inches from the traitor’s head, when a hand touched his arm. “No,” the princess said. “Don’t do it.” Her eyes, which were normally so soft, looked like chips of stone.
The prince spoke through gritted teeth, and Simms whimpered as he wet his trousers. “Why not? The bastard deserves to die.”
“That’s true,” the princess responded evenly, “but what if you turn the dog against its master? Your brother will believe everything that the misbegotten whoreson says. For a while at least . . . And that’s all you need.”
There was a moment of silence as the prince absorbed the meaning of her words. A smile grew as he lowered the gun. “You make an excellent point, my dear. This is an interesting opportunity indeed.” The nobleman’s head swiveled toward the senior guard. “Lock the scoundrel up. No one is to speak to him without my permission. And both you and your entire detail will remain on the palace grounds until further notice. Not only must we must take all the steps necessary to ensure that there was only one spy—but we must do everything necessary to prevent word of what took place from leaking out.
“Now,” the royal said, turning toward Norr. “It seems that I owe you an apology. More than that a position within my household. Your talent is not only genuine but extremely useful. So much so that it would be unfortunate if you were to fall into the wrong hands.”
Norr struggled to speak but discovered that Lysander still had control of her vocal cords. “Thank you, sire,” he said huskily, “but my companions and I are already committed to an extremely important task. One that requires us to depart Pooz on the next ship.”
The prince raised his eyebrows. “And if I object?”
Rebo waved the Hogger. “No offense, sire. But that wouldn’t be a very good idea . . . We hold the high ground at the moment, and while you could chase us down after we withdraw, there’s your new secret to consider. If you allow us to leave the planet, it will be safe, but force us to stay, and the information will go straight to your brother.”
The proud nobleman felt another surge of anger and was about to respond accordingly, when the princess touched his arm. “What about the red hats?” she demanded, gesturing toward the Dib Wa. “Will they leave the planet as well?”
Rebo looked at Lee, and the boy nodded. “Yes. You have my word.”
The prince started to question the assertion, especially since it had originated from a mere youth, but something about the authoritative manner in which the boy spoke caused him to hesitate. Finally, having heard no objection from his wife, the nobleman agreed. “All right. But only if two members of my staff accompany you until the ship lifts—and you will agree to join my household if the vessel fails to appear.”
Lysander was about to refuse when Norr managed to wrestle control away from him. “Thank you, sire,” she said. “We agree.”
Rebo hadn’t agreed to anything and resented the manner in which the sensitive had spoken for him, but decided that it would be best to raise the issue later. He motioned for Norr to back out through the door. “We’re staying at the runner’s guild. You can send your men there.” Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, the intruders were gone.
SEVEN
The Planet Anafa
There have always been some who could communicate with those in the next world, but it was only when the ancients found scientific proof of an afterlife that such individuals were accepted, then studied. Later, by means of techniques no longer understood, an entire subspecies of highly specialized human beings was brought into existence. Not to comfort the bereaved or access the wisdom of those who had passed into spirit, but to make money. And so it was that our ancestors were created for commercial rather than spiritual purposes—and came to be regarded with suspicion rather than respect. A curse that follows us to this day.
—Grand Vizier Horga Entube,
The History of My People
Soft white light flooded the circular conference room and threw hard dark shadows down across the highly polished concrete floor. All of the council members were present, but Omar Tepho had yet to arrive, and Jevan Kane had little choice but to wait for him. Having failed to capture Norr on Pooz, and under pressure to get results, the operative had returned to Anafa and the city of Seros. His task, which was to establish communications with Lysander, remained the same. But rather than use Norr as the channel, the technologist planned to employ the services of a more cooperative sensitive.
His name was Arn Dyson, and he was seated within the embrace of the keyhole-shaped slot that ran in toward the center of the round table. The variant was older rather than younger, and possessed shoulder-length white hair, which he wore in a ponytail. He had a deeply lined face, hooded eyes, and a strong chin. Though not the most famous of seers, Dyson had a solid reputation and, unlike the flighty Norr, demonstrated a willingness to serve. All of which boded well. Which was good, because Chairman Tepho and certain council members had grown decidedly restive of late.
There was a stir as the scientist entered, exchanged greetings with his fellow council members, and took his seat. The chair had been specially designed to accept Tepho’s spinal deformity and sighed softly. In the meantime, Shaz appeared behind the chairman. He eyed Kane, treated the operative to one of his caninelike grins, and disappeared. “All right,” Tepho said, “let’s get on with it.”
Kane sought to swallow the lump that had formed in the back of his throat and opened the meeting. “Ladies and gentlemen, all of you know why we’re here, so we might as well get this session under way. Citizen Dyson? What can we do to help?”
The sensitive smiled reassuringly as he looked from face to face. “It would be helpful if those of you who actually
knew Milos Lysander during his most recent incarnation would visualize his features, summon up a positive memory of him, and focus on that. In the meantime the rest of the group can send welcoming thoughts and do their best to remain open. Please turn the lights down—and don’t touch me after I go into trance.”
Kane ordered that the lights be dimmed, managed to summon up an image of Lysander’s face, and sorted through his memories of the man, looking for one that was positive. There were a few, but not that many, even though the two of them had been close during the years prior to the founder’s premature death, something Tepho continued to resent.
Lysander was a hard man to please, and even though Kane had worked extremely hard to do so, he had rarely been successful. The operative selected one of the rare occasions on which he had been praised, focused his mind on that, and hoped that the thought would function as a beacon.
Meanwhile, Milos Lysander’s ethereal body shivered, began to dissipate, and came back together again as the discarnate entity paused to revisualize it. This was something he and every other spirit had to do occasionally in order to maintain a consistent appearance. Of course there were some individuals who couldn’t be bothered with that sort of thing and looked like blobs of constantly shifting light. The scientist didn’t care for that, however, and liked to maintain an appearance similar to that of Emperor Hios.
Now, as Lysander forced his way down through increasingly dense layers of reality, he soon found himself among the beings who liked to wallow about in the thick, glutinous muck that surrounded the physical plane, or were there on an errand of some sort. A few, like the scientist, were responding to a specific call. Some contacts were intentional, as when a sensitive attempted to communicate with a specific entity, but most were accidental. Lysander had experienced many of those. Someone, members of the Techno Society were the most frequent offenders, would think or talk about him for an extended period of time and unknowingly pepper him with thought forms.
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