by James Palmer
“Good evening, sir,” drawled Josef sarcastically. “Dinner was ready two chronons ago. My apologies for not anticipating your tardiness.”
Bal shrugged casually, ignoring the valet-bot’s tone. “Maybe you could just make me a sandwich. I don’t think ‘Bani’s eating tonight.”
“Of course, sir,” said Josef in a petulant tone. “I’ll put aside my many and sundry duties to make you a sandwich.”
“I’ll be in my cabin,” replied Bal, seemingly oblivious to the ‘bot’s sarcasm.
“Of course, sir.” The valet-bot noisily went about the task of preparing a sandwich.
The entry in Who’s Who in the Milky Way read:
PRINCESS VIRGA of VERLANTICA
born 10597 G.S.C. into major branch of ruling family Vosvoran of planet Verlantica; inherited throne 10613 G.S.C.; abdicated 10615 G.S.C. in favor of minor branch of ruling family amid rumors of financial negligence.
That had been only a few cycles ago, Bal observed.
A hologram of the princess accompanied the text entry.
She was pretty, well-proportioned and dusky-skinned. Long, straight black hair fell along the sides of her heart-shaped face like velvet drapes. Her eyes were wide-set, and almond-shaped, and violet-colored. Her nose was small and straight, and slightly upturned, and her lips were well-formed, the lower one quite full, though Bal thought he observed a touch of petulance in its curve. The princess appeared to be a few cycles younger than she was. Bal was not surprised she inspired the apparent ardor she did in her companion, the mysterious Xiten. She was beautiful enough to be a holovie star, and Bal imagined she moved gracefully, like a swan on a lake.
Arga Cilus’ entry in the database was even shorter, and revealed nothing about him Batrachian hadn’t mentioned. No hologram existed of him, officially.
It suddenly occurred to Bal that Batrachian had told the two of them nothing the amphibian couldn’t have looked up in the Who’s Who himself. Slightly baring his teeth, Bal frowned to himself at this discovery.
Bal found no listing for a “Xiten”. If Batrachian’s information had been accurate, the actor Xiten wouldn’t have been listed in the directory, whether he was the Xiten that Batrachian had found, or not. He would not have been noteworthy enough to make it into the official directory of important personages and celebrities of galactic civilization.
There was, of course, no way to identify Batrachian’s “Colonel” based on the meager information the amphibian Tarbic had provided about this alleged being. Batrachian, as an eyewitness, could have started a visual search based on the colonel’s race, but Bal could not do even this. To console himself, Bal reflected that Batrachian had made this “colonel” sound unimportant.
With at least a name and a race/homeworld for Virga and Arga Cilus, Bal set his computer to begin a more detailed search for information about the two. This would take some time, and Bal began preparations for retiring for the night.
As he undressed, Bal realized he was hungry.
Bal spoke at the transceiver of the holovisor. “Josef, what’s taking so long? I told you a simple sandwich would be fine.”
Bal was surprised when Josef didn’t respond. Not only was the ‘bot responsible about his duties, but he liked to voice his opinion whenever possible. It was unlike him to ignore his master’s hail.
“Never mind, Josef,” said Bal with forced casualness. “I’ve decided to go straight to bed. Close up the ship for the night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
From a bedside drawer, Bal withdrew a large, dark blazer. It looked well-worn, as if it had been used many times in the past. Numerous scratches scarred its hard, cool surface. Bal held it firmly but not tightly, indicating his experience with the weapon.
Bare-footed and shirtless, Bal Tabarin exited his cabin. He crept silently down the corridor toward the stairwell, a human wolf on the prowl.
At the top of the stairwell, Bal cocked his head, and listened for some sound of activity, but there was none.
He glided down the stairs, making no noise as he did so, and, at the landing below, poked his head out into the corridor.
It was empty.
Bal entered the corridor, and headed toward the galley.
No sounds emanated from the galley. Bal waited a moment, then peered cautiously into the small room.
Josef lay on the hard floor, in pieces. Parts of him were strewn the length of the chamber. Scorch marks marred his metal frame, the edges melted slightly.
Josef had been blown apart by a heavy blaze gun.
Bal Tabarin knelt and examined the torso of the valet-bot, inspecting the damage inflicted upon it.
“Drop the blazer,” said a harsh voice from behind Bal.
The Corruban grimaced, and quietly laid his blaze gun down on the galley floor, the weapon making a slight noise as it struck the hard surface.
Bal heard soft words being spoken behind him, and couldn’t make them out, but decided his captor was informing his comrades of his find. Silently, Bal thought, Rebani, if you can hear me, we’re in trouble. Wake up!
“Stand up,” said the voice. There was no relief in the voice at Bal Tabarin now being unarmed. It was cool, calm.
Professional, Bal realized, remembering Pyx’s account of the burglary at his residence.
The Corruban slowly stood, keeping his arms slightly away from his body. He gave his captor no excuse to blaze him.
Bal heard the being move backwards a few steps, then the voice said, “Take me to the Sacred Heart.”
Bal Tabarin grimaced again, taking no pleasure in the fact that he had been right about his captor and his motives.
“It’s in the safe in my cabin,” Bal explained.
“All right,” said the voice. “Let’s go. But take it easy.”
Bal slowly turned, and got a quick glance at the being who stood behind him.
The being was a symmetrical biped, dressed in dark crimson-colored paramilitary garb, with an ebon plasteel chestplate worn over it. He held a short blaze carbine, which was powerful enough to have done the damage inflicted upon Josef. A dark-lensed helmet obscured the being’s features. It was impossible to determine even the soldier’s race beyond the fact that it was one of the Humanoid species. Before he turned into the corridor, Bal noticed an insignia on the uniform. Committing it to memory, he would recognize it if he saw it again.
Thinking of Pyx’s burglary, Bal said, “There’s no need for violence. I’ll co-operate fully.”
Bal Tabarin started down the corridor toward the stairwell, leading the way to his cabin.
11 In Which Jackals
Snipe at Lions
The dining room was immaculate, and dignified in appearance, if spartanly decorated, with a subdued color scheme, and just enough precious metals in the right places to lend the place class. Outside the glassteel portals, the whiteness of hyperspace loomed.
The large room was empty but for one person.
Rebani Kalba sat at a table near one wall, wearing the black greatcoat of a Sabour Monitor. It was new, and Rebani wore it with pride, almost posing as he sat at the table.
An unnatural silence hung in the air.
(He knew this place. It was the dining room on the Akkadian Nova. It was not as he remembered it. When he had been there, the room had been crowded with beings, filled with noise of a crowd.)
A bear of a man with vibrant yellow skin entered the room, tall, wide, with dark hair and beard that glinted green and framed his pleasant face. The former was tied atop his head in a bun; the latter came to two points, like tusks, at the end of which were casings made out of Martonium, a mineral found only on Mars. His nails were long, and as hard as plasteel. He wore a colorful robe of navy and gold that hid most of his body. As the Sentient approached the dark-wooded table where Rebani sat, he smiled upon seeing the youth.
Rebani Kalba returned the smile, though his was somewhat thinner, and nodded slightly in greeting. “Vagram.”
An uneasy feeling nagged at
young Rebani. Something was not right, he felt, but he probed no further.
Vagram Ysdreen the Ozmot seated himself at Rebani’s table, making a great show of it, as if he enjoyed seating himself. He had always done things in a larger than life manner, Rebani remembered.
(Vagram was dead ... the thought struck Rebani forcibly.)
“Have you ordered yet?” Vagram asked as he grandly surveyed the holo-menu as if it were some ancient map which would lead to lost treasure. He seemed to do everything in a grand manner, as if he lived every moment to its fullest.
“No. I was waiting for you.”
Vagram did not apologize for being late. He had not, young Rebani thought, ever apologized to anyone for anything; as soon as something was done, it was forgotten by the robust giant.
Suddenly, food was on the table before them. It hadn’t appeared; it was just there, as if it had been there all along, and Rebani was just now noticing it.
“Are we on the Akkadian Nova?” asked Rebani uncertainly.
Giant Vagram laughed heartily. This resembled the pleasant growl of a bear. “Of course we are. Where else would we be?”
“But this isn’t how I remember it,” Rebani said in a hard tone, fear creeping into his voice.
To Rebani’s puzzled expression, the giant Ozmot explained, “We’re on our way to Trucar. You haven’t forgotten?”
A horrified look came onto Rebani’s hawk-like face. “You’ll be killed on Trucar.”
Vagram did not appear to hear Rebani’s words. He frowned, for one of the few times in his life, and glanced about the large, empty room. “No, it’s not quite right, is it? The dining room was crowded, wasn’t it?”
Vagram Ysdreen gazed levelly at young Rebani. “So much of what we perceive comes from what we believe.”
Rebani trembled as a growing feeling of horror spread throughout his being. “You’re dead. You were killed on Trucar fifteen cycles ago.”
“I’m here with you now, Rebani,” rumbled Vagram soothingly. “I’m going to be killed in a few decachronons on Trucar. ‘Killed defending a misbegotten race who never even knew his name’. Isn’t that how you think of it?
“I’m satisfied with the way I die, Rebani, in the service of those who needed my help. Yet, you’re bitter about it.”
“Let’s go back,” protested Rebani weakly, unable to muster up much strength in his voice. He seemed unable to move. “Let’s get help. I don’t want you to die,” the young Sabour pleaded.
The bear of a man smiled gently at the youth. “It’s all right, Rebani. I’ve lived life the way I wanted to, on my own terms.”
Tears started to form at the corners of Rebani’s narrow eyes.
“You’ve learned this lesson from me, but you don’t enjoy life the way I do,” Vagram continued.
“Don’t go,” pleaded Rebani.
“You’re a strong man, Rebani,” Vagram said gently, “stronger than you think. But you’ve got to give up your pain and anger. It will destroy you, if you don’t. Love life as I have. Remember that, if nothing else, about me, Rebani.”
Vagram Ysdreen stood from the table, making a grand gesture of it. “I’ve got to go now, Rebani.” He laid a large hand gently on his young ward’s shoulder, one of the few times Rebani could recall the older man showing affection to him.
Vagram turned and walked away. As he left, a single tear rolled down one of Rebani’s cheeks.
“Don’t go,” whispered young Rebani Kalba, knowing it was too late, as Vagram disappeared beyond the doorway. There was no escaping Fate.
Rebani Kalba awoke with a start, gasping for air, a scream caught in his throat.
It took him a moment to realize something was wrong. He shook off the lingering pain of the dream, shut it back where he kept it deep in his soul, and analyzed the other feeling that tugged at him.
There was danger on the ship.
Rebani dressed quickly, and exited his small cabin. He crept down the corridor, following the emanations of danger to their source.
Bal Tabarin stood well off to the side in his large stateroom, away from the doorway as his captor entered following him; too many professional gunmen would just as soon kill a prisoner as tell him to behave himself, Bal knew.
The Corruban gestured to a panel in the wall. “In there,” he explained. Only close inspection would have revealed the wall panel to be false, and hiding a safe.
The mercenary pointed his blaze carbine at the wall safe. The weapon erupted, and a bright flash of incandescent plasma flew toward the wall. The false wall panel exploded with a loud crash, and smoke filled the far end of the stateroom.
Bal coughed once, and said, “I would’ve opened it for you.”
Without replying, the soldier walked toward the safe. As the smoke cleared, Bal saw the safe door had been breached, and hung, limply, from a single hinge. He noticed that the blast had been aimed so as not to destroy the contents of the safe. It had been a well-placed shot, the mark of a true professional.
The mercenary pulled a small case from the safe. “This it?” he asked Bal.
Bal nodded.
“Is it trapped?”
“No,” answered Bal.
The mercenary looked at Bal uncertainly.
Bal held out one hand. “I’ll open it for you, if you like,” he said helpfully.
The soldier hesitated a moment, then pointed the carbine at Bal. “If a trap goes off when I open this, I’ll blaze you. I’m going to ask you one more time: Is it trapped?”
“No.”
The mercenary juggled the case and his weapon so that he could shoot Bal, if necessary.
“It’s perfectly safe,” Bal said soothingly, a little too calmly for the mercenary’s liking. “Would you like me to stand nearer? Or farther away?”
“Stay where you are,” the soldier said harshly. “I don’t like you,” he added.
“I’m sorry,” said Bal without a trace of sincerity. “I’m just trying to be helpful. The last thing I want is to start trouble.”
“Shut up, then, or there will be trouble.” The mercenary slowly opened the small case.
Nothing happened.
Inside was a glistening gem about the size of a fist.
The soldier shut the case. “I guess you were telling the truth.”
“Of course I was telling the truth,” Bal said indignantly. “Do you think I want to be blazed?”
The mercenary pointed his blaze carbine at Bal as though contemplating shooting him anyway, like swatting a pesky insect that buzzed near only so often, then said, “Stay here. If you signal for help, we’ll blaze your ship from the sky as we leave. Understood?”
“Understood,” replied Bal. He sat down on his bed, and made himself comfortable.
The mercenary left with the gem, and Bal smiled to himself, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin.
Rebani Kalba sensed armed men ahead, in a nearby corridor. At this range, he was able to tell that there were several men, and their attitudes revealed that they were armed. He felt that they were searching for something; killing was not their foremost priority. But he was certain they wouldn’t hesitate to do so if necessary. He sensed they were accustomed to violence.
Rebani walked a few paces more, and stepped boldly out into the corridor, and saw five soldiers wearing uniforms and plasteel chestplates and helmets. Each carried a blaze carbine, as well as a sidearm blazer.
“I am a Sabour Monitor,” Rebani announced. “I advise you to surrender while you are able.”
Without hesitation, the mercenaries quickly brought their weapons to bear.
But more quickly, Rebani withdrew his oddly-shaped Veloceter weapon, and, hand inside the sphere, aimed the slender cone at the grouping of soldiers. A distortion wave shot down the corridor almost faster than the eye could follow, and bowled over three of the mercenaries who stood nearest one another, their carbines flying from their grasps as each hit the floor with a thud. The carbines clattered noisily as they struck the hard floor.
Hot plasma erupted from a blaze carbine held by a standing mercenary, and struck Rebani’s greatcoat. The Sabour felt the warmth through the fabric. Designed for battle, the cloak was undamaged and had stopped the incandescent plasma which was already cooling. Designed to repel handgun fire, the greatcoat might eventually be consumed by carbine blasts. But only might.
Another plasma burst splashed against a bulkhead, and spattered against the Sabour’s shoulder, covered by the greatcoat. Having lost much of its heat in the initial impact, the tiny plasma globules did little visible damage to the cloak.
As the two standing mercenaries sought cover, Rebani pointed his Velo gun overhead, and, with the crash of shattering plasteel, destroyed the lights in his section of the corridor. Now sheathed in darkness, he was protected by its welcome embrace.
Every time one mercenary poked his head out to shoot blindly at Rebani, the Sabour returned fire, the distortion wave rushing past the mercenaries like a powerful gust of air.
The two uninjured mercenaries, pinned down, unable to leave their cover – adjoining corridors – pot-shot into the darkness where Rebani crouched, widely missing him. On the floor nearby, their comrades stirred, beginning to regain their senses.
Rebani closed his eyes, and reached out with his mind. Fear crept from the darkness, like a slow fog rolling in off the ocean, and enveloped the mercenaries. It clutched at their beings.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” one yelled to the other. “He’s going to kill us.”
“Hold your position,” the other yelled back, terror tingeing his voice as well. “Marik’s on his way.”
