Sully had told me where he’d found the traces of the worm program. I wanted to look at them in case, as I told him, the program was a parting gift from the Imperial Fleet. Just because Kingswell couldn’t create such a program didn’t mean his crew had been equally untalented.
I was better trained to recognize Fleet worms than Sully was. But I didn’t recognize these. At least, not the small residues, aborted snips of code that were all that was left. The program not only tried to destroy the Karn’s systems, it had destroyed itself, eradicating its identity.
Like a zral. Or a zragkor.
No wonder Sully understood these programs so well.
Only a few Ragkiril, he’d said. And by oblique admission, placed himself in their ranks. One of the few human ones. And the possibility, with the situation on Marker, we would face another.
Questions, a thousand questions. Again, my mind reminded me that with every one Sully answered for me, another ten popped up.
Let’s deal with Marker, my brain said. At least there, shipping manifests leave nice, linear trails that can be plugged into grids.
I pulled up my work data, still intact in spite of the damage, and paged through to where I’d left off before we’d transferred to the Karn. I started reading, trying to pick up my train of thought. My note-mark flashed. Right. The stuff on Crossley. I’d never transferred my personal notes to Sully’s hologrid in the ready room. We’d gone over everything else that day, but not my questions on Crossley.
I opened the note, reread the data. Crossley Burke. Not the vid-game people. At least, not anymore. Unless they were breeding jukors to add a touch of realism to their sims. Wouldn’t get a lot of repeat customers if they were.
I was headed for Sully’s deskcomp to see what the Karn held on Crossley Burke when the cabin door slid open. Sully, looking more relaxed than when he left but none too happy.
I took a wild guess. “How much?”
He hesitated only half a second. “Oh. Four million, one hundred thousand. And change. Or so.”
“You have a lot on your mind. You can’t expect your game to improve right now.” I frankly didn’t think his game would ever improve, but there are times when you have to make certain encouraging noises.
He looked positively affronted. “I am improving! I didn’t lose half as much as I normally do.”
He stripped off his laser pistol, threw it on the couch next to mine, then sat, arms draped along the back of the cushions. “Still working?”
I settled into the desk chair, tabbed up the screen. “Ran across some notes I made a few days ago. I’m looking for a reference for anything to do with a firm, or a name, of Crossley Burke.”
“This has to do with Marker?” He stood suddenly and was at the desk in two long strides. “Marker? This has—”
“Give me a chance to answer. Yes, this has to do with Marker. Either funding, or a concept group that—”
“Crossley Burke. You’re sure it’s Crossley?” He leaned his palms on the desk and stared at me.
“It’s not Crossley. They used to make vid games.”
“Show me the reference.”
I knew he didn’t mean the vid games. He followed me to the dining-room table, his hands fisted. I pulled up the data and pointed to it.
He sat and stared at my small screen. “Hell’s ass. God damned son of a bitch.”
“Sully—”
“Goddamned bastard. I should’ve known.”
“Sully.”
He ran a hand over his face. “Crossley Burke. Hayden Crossley Burke.”
That sounded like a person. “Who’s Hayden Crossley Burke?”
His eyes narrowed. “Someone I should’ve killed long ago, when I had the chance. Hayden Crossley Burke’s my cousin.”
22
I could see the resemblance. Hayden Crossley Burke, cousin of Gabriel Ross Sullivan, who was the son of Winthrop Burke Sullivan. They were men of similar height and build, and looked to be about the same age.
The news vidclip playing on the ready room’s hologrid, and on Marsh’s bridge screen, had been shot last year at a charity ball on Garno. Hayden moved easily through a crowd bedecked in formal attire and glittering gems. The vidcam wasn’t focused on him but on the parade of last year’s vid stars silhouetted against the ever-familiar forms of old money and power, like Darius Tage, Lady Ailionora Petroski, or one of the Bell-Javieros. We’d see Hayden in the background, shaking hands, chatting, then lose him. Another few minutes, the camera would swing around to highlight another long-legged beauty revealing an amazing amount of cleavage, and there was Hayden. Shaking hands, chatting. Smiling.
“He’s older,” Sully said. “Four, five years.”
Similar jawline, straight nose, dark hair. But Cousin Hayden’s eyes were light. And while Sully’s smile was often playful, Hayden’s was polished. Professional.
“Looks like he shits money,” Gregor said.
For once, he and I were in total agreement.
Sully tabbed off the vid, perched on the edge of the round table, and crossed his arms. His expression was one of a man contemplating something unpleasant. I didn’t know if it was Hayden himself or what Hayden funded. Or the very real fact that Hayden was in a position to do these things because Sully had refused to be a Sullivan. Hayden was not only the heir to the Crossley Burke fortune, but had control of the Sullivan moneys as well.
Sully outlined the wealth at Hayden’s disposal and the contacts that came with that wealth, with no mention that it could have been his. He confirmed my suspicion that Crossley Burke, the megacorporation, had grown from the small vid-game firm I remembered. Diversified. Acquired. But most often in the background, quietly. Hayden and his father, Morley Burke, had negotiated a number of lucrative government contracts over the years. Sully admitted he hadn’t paid much attention to them. Finding out what those contracts were was now a priority.
“You ever meet the guy?” Gregor was across from me, next to Aubry. He flicked the end of his lightpen at the blank hologrid as if Hayden’s image was still there. “At Marker,” he added. “Ever see him there?”
Gregor had avoided me since Sully’s talk with him, no longer challenging me directly. But that tone of dislike still hung under his words when he spoke.
I shook my head. “Not that I remember.” And I would have. Hayden was an attractive man.
“Not even talking to your brother?” Gregor persisted.
Ren exchanged glances, and I could only imagine what else, with Sully.
“I don’t remember Thad ever mentioning his name either. But we didn’t talk a lot, even before the trial. If we did, it was usually about Willym.” Argued about Willym. I’d almost convinced Suzette to take him out of the crèche. Then I’d been arrested.
“Willym?”
“My brother. Half brother.”
Gregor’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s he work on Marker?”
“Nowhere. He’s nine years old.”
Gregor snorted. “Your father must be—”
“You have a point with all this?” Sully’s voice was hard.
Gregor shrugged and toyed with his lightpen. “Sure would be more useful if she could say, yeah, I saw Burke at Marker. On this or that date. Or, yeah, my brother told me about this party he went to with Burke.”
“Thad’s not the party type. And they’re not even remotely in the same social circles.” But Philip was. Shame I couldn’t ask what he knew about Hayden. “The only reason he’d talk to Hayden Burke at all would be for shipyard business. And we don’t have any proof right now that Thad has.”
Ren leaned toward me, silencing any further comment from Gregor. “Verno and I were discussing the reasons your brother’s office might receive confirmation of incoming ships privately. He asked that I mention it.” Verno was off duty, sleeping at Sully’s orders after one too many long shifts. “It could be that he suspects someone is misusing the shipyards. He may not know about the labs we suspect are being created, but be as suspic
ious as we are.”
I’d thought of that. That would be very like Thad. Fleet first. Always by the book. Even more than me. His mother had worn army boots too.
“If he is, he might help us.” Aubry had a high, thin voice for a man of his bulk. He spent his off-duty time working out in the ship’s small gym with Marsh.
“I wouldn’t trust him,” Sully said. “At this point.”
“I agree.” But I would, oddly, trust Philip. I just didn’t know how Sully would react to that if I suggested it.
We passed another beacon shortly after Verno came on duty, three hours later. The Karn efficiently and secretively grabbed the news banks, traffic, and in-system advisories.
I brought up the data on Sully’s deskscreen as I got ready for bed. The Farosians had staged a protest outside the government center on Aldan Prime. There’d been a major depot fire in Port January, losses in the millions. Two women, raped, brutally murdered in Crescent City in the Walker Colonies. Odd, engraved disks found at both crime scenes… .
While jukors were born and Takas died.
And other Takas killed.
Sully sat behind me on the edge of our bed and brushed out my hair. I was wearing my worry colors, he told me.
“I should learn not to watch the news before bed.” I wished I could read his moods as he did mine. Wished I could tell when he was open, willing to talk. “What color is worry?”
His hands stilled, then lifted my hair. He ran the brush underneath. “Muddy colors. Like dirty water in a stream.”
“Anger?”
“Reddish.”
“Fear?”
“Yellow. The correlations are fairly commonsense.”
“Does healing have a color? When Ren was injured on the bridge, you—”
“That’s different.” This time the brush did stop. I heard it clatter against the nightstand. It was a sharp sound, like the tone in Sully’s voice. Then his arms wrapped around my waist, his face against my neck. Warmth fluttered, trickled.
“That’s different,” he repeated, softer this time. “But it’s nothing that would ever hurt you. I’d never hurt you.”
I covered his arms with my own. “I know.” With a twinge of reluctance, I opened my mental cold storage, shoved that question back inside. I didn’t want to hurt him either.
Sully and I’d discussed course changes before, but the next morning was the first time he ever had me initiate one. That had usually been Gregor’s prerogative. I had no desire to step on toes in that regard.
“Dock Five. You’re sure?” I leaned on the arm pad in the pilot’s chair. Marsh and Aubry were due to come on in an hour. It was just Sully, Ren, and myself on the bridge. Just as it would be only Sully, Ren, and myself going on to Marker.
He’d said that too, just before he told me he wanted to head for Dock Five.
“We have to refuel, pick up supplies,” he said.
I could name ten other depots that would do that just as well and told him so.
“But the Karn didn’t stop at any of those before I left for Moabar. It was at Dock Five. We have to look around there before we proceed further.” He motioned to Ren sitting at helm in front of me, his back to the console. “I told Ren about your theory. That another,” he glanced quickly at the closed bridge hatchway, “Ragkiril may be involved. That might explain how the information about Milo was obtained.”
“My only difficulty with that possibility,” Ren said, “is that I cannot see one of my people, or anyone with Ragkiril talents, encouraging the breeding of jukors.”
“I’ll name reasons why someone might.” I raised one hand, held up a finger with each item. “Greed, money, blackmail, power. Need more?”
Ren shook his head. “Of course, we’re not immune to that. But not with jukors as a goal.” He glanced at Sully. “You didn’t explain this to her?”
My explanations, I wanted to tell Ren, were still coming in very small doses.
Sully took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Not … completely.”
I didn’t like that tone. Part of me said, What now? And part of me said, Oh, shit. I didn’t know whether to laugh or brace myself.
I must have braced myself, because Sully and Ren spoke out almost simultaneously.
“No, it’s nothing—”
“Not to worry—”
“Explain. Please.”
“To put it briefly,” Sully said, after a short staring contest with Ren, “jukors can’t be affected by mind talents. It becomes, then, strictly a physical battle. And few things are physically a match for a jukor.”
“A modified Norlack did pretty damned well,” I reminded him.
“The jukor’s only vulnerable area is that small spot of its throat. You have one coming at you, you might take it down. You have ten, you have no chance. One of them will get you.”
“So? Humans face the same type of threat from them. Why would that preclude a Stolorth, a Ragkiril, from working for a jukor-breeding project?”
“Because it takes away the advantage a Ragkiril has. That’s why jukors were bred after the Boundary Wars. Not for security purposes, as the government claimed. But to make sure Stolorths, or anyone with Ragkiril talents, wouldn’t challenge the Empire.”
“It was unnecessary.” Ren’s voice held a note of sadness. “We have no interest in acquiring more worlds, like the Empire. Our very passivity makes the Empire distrust us. That and, of course, the Empire’s experience with our Ragkirils when we did try to assist in the war. When our founders realized that, they thought it best that the Empire not understand the different levels and degrees of mind talents. That, it seems, was even a worse thing to do. Now we are all viewed as a latent threat.”
Ren was right. I’d grown up with everything he told me. The fears, the prejudice, the condemnation of telepaths. The Empire, greedy and bloated, categorizing all others in the same way, assigning others their own motives.
I also saw why a Ragkiril might not work on a project to breed jukors. But I didn’t discount it totally. “So we go back to Dock Five.”
Sully nodded. “Pick up the trail, if there is one. See who’s been watching us. And who’s paying them to watch us.”
“Crossley Burke.”
A wry smile. “That would be ironic, wouldn’t it? If Cousin Hayden does prove I’m still alive, he stands a good chance of losing his inheritance. All that Sullivan money.”
“I thought your father disowned you.”
“Oh, he did. But Hayden’s not legal heir. He’s assisting by right of next of kin, as I’m theoretically dead. But since my body was never recovered, you know the regs; it hasn’t been seven years. If he proves I’m alive, then he’s also proved he has no right to the money.”
I looked at Ren. “I’d start keeping real good records of those card games if I were you.”
Ren smiled.
Sully didn’t come back to the cabin right away when our shift ended. Had some thoughts he wanted to play with on the hologrid in the ready room, he said.
I left him there. I had some thoughts of my own, circling, hovering, unwanted. No, not unwanted. Just unanswered. Tea, not coffee, sounded soothing. I was on my second cup when Sully came back to the cabin.
“Find anything more?” I’d kicked off my boots and was reclining on the couch.
He shook his head. “Bits and pieces. It’s frustrating.”
“I fully sympathize.” My bits and pieces had hovered through two cups of tea. Empath. Telepath. Ragkir. Ragkiril. Stolorth. Human. Sully. I scooted my feet over on the cushions so he could sit.
He plopped down, covering his mouth with his hand for a moment. Then he splayed his fingers toward me. “I know. I also know my saying you have nothing to be afraid of sometimes isn’t sufficient.”
Damn. Even though I’d pushed my thoughts away—or thought I had—when he walked through the open door, he’d sensed them. Or saw the worry colors in my rainbow.
“I’m not afraid of you, Sully.” It wasn’t fear I f
elt most often when confronted with what Sully could do. It was frustration over lack of facts to work with. “I’m afraid of doing something wrong. Because I don’t understand what it means to be a Ragkiril. Why you were chosen, or if it’s something you chose—”
He flashed me an anguished look, his back stiffening. “Believe me, I’d never choose this.” His voice was bitter.
“So it chose you?”
“It?”
I couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. “I don’t understand. You’re human, not Stolorth.” I knew every inch of him. He was definitely human. “I thought your abilities might have come from a symbiote implant or genetic enhancement.” Both had been outlawed after the Boundary Wars, but there were always places where money could buy anything. Especially if you were already an outlaw like Gabriel Ross Sullivan. Given his chosen line of work with smugglers, arms runners, and rafthkra dealers, some mind-reading skills could go a long way in keeping him alive.
But he’d not chosen the talent. He’d just admitted that. There was a deeper story here, one I didn’t at all understand. One that clearly haunted him.
He leaned his elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. Struggled. I could see it in the lines around his eyes, the tension in his mouth. I was about to tell him forget it, I don’t want to know, I can’t bear to see you suffer like this, when he answered.
“It’s a random genetic mutation. It can happen about every four or five generations in humans.”
“It runs in your family—”
“No. No one else.” He spoke haltingly. “That I know of.”
“Then how did you know—”
“At first I didn’t. Things just … happened. Thoughts. Sounds. Pictures from someone else’s mind. I didn’t know how or why.” His voice was harsh. “All I know is I woke up one morning and looked in the mirror, and I was terrified, because I saw—”
He stopped abruptly and stared at his clenched hands. Not at me. He hadn’t looked at me for several minutes. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “Because I saw,” he continued, his voice forcibly calm, “what I am.”
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