Copyright 1992 by Jim Vassilakos All Rights Reserved Permission is granted by the copyright holder to copy and distribute this work such that no commercial or barter consideration is obtained in exchange for such copies. --------------------------------------------------------------- Sixteen The condo's comm-board continued to beep, muted light from the Sintrivani sketching dim lines across the white, plaster walls. Cecil curled his lip into an angry grimace. "Great hindsight, gatherer." "Just answer it." Mike added a t-cross with his finger and thumb, an old gatherer hand-sign, and one of the few which he remembered teaching Cecil. It usually meant "track" or "follow", but given the proper context, it could mean "trace". Cecil's cameras bobbed in comprehension as Johanes' image appeared on the three-vee, a slight nod displaying all the greetings he wished to convey. Cecil snorted, "Speak of the devil and he shalt come." "Look, I don't have time to play verbal assault with either of you. I know that you're probably tracing this call, so just stop me if I start getting long-winded." Mike smiled, "Fat chance." "I'm calling on your behalf, Michael. I realize that right now you probably think that I'm lower than a swamp slog." "You could have killed thousands of people, Johanes." "But I didn't." "And you tried to set me up. You sacrificed Nicholas. And for all you knew, that nuke could have gone off in the heart of Xin." "All true." Mike shook his head is disbelief. "You don't even care." "There's a lot at stake, Michael." "Doomsday?" Johanes gulped down a lump of air. "I've already told you far too much." "Now you have to kill me, I suppose?" Mike grinned his baiting grin, waiting for anything that would keep Johanes on the line just a few moments longer. The Draconian seemed to read his mind from afar, sifting implications through the pours of Mike's skin. He took a deep breath. "If I wasn't pressed for time, perhaps I would do the honors, but I imagine the Imps will do a far better job with you than I." "Too bad. You could have done us all. Why didn't you?" "Just do yourself a favor, Michael. Get back to Tizar. Forget about this story. If you try publishing even half of what you know, it'll be the same as signing your own execution warrant." "How many times have I heard that before?" "This isn't like the other crap. Don't give them a reason to pay you a visit. It's not worth it." His face flickered off the depth box as the connection broke, and within a minute, Mike had dismembered the "bug" from its battery. "Hmm... didn't self-destruct like the others. Did you trace him?" Cecil shook his head, "He's a crafty one. He piggy-backed on a remote dialer. Could have found him, but he dropped the line before it became apparent." "Damnit, Cecil! I had him on for how long?!" "Cecil be sorry." The camera's made a dejected pose. "Got the last of it recorded from the remote if you're interested. Just didn't think to extend the trace in time." "Great hindsight, hacker." The camera nearest Mike perked sideways like a confused dog trying to see things from a slightly different perspective: Cecil's way of acknowledging a turn-about. However, something about its hound-like stance and the crumpled flimsi in his pants pocket told Mike the chase wasn't over. The comm-address glittered faintly as Mike flattened the flimsi out on the rug. "Cecil, I just thought of something." "Congratulations." "Spokes managed to trace a call I made him from Gardansa's to a restricted comm-address." "So?" "He was using amplitude logs or something. Can you do the same thing?" The camera seemed to shrug. "That could take days." "I bet you he's at the Arien mansion. Just compare the dialing records to the mansion and the immediate area around it." Cecil half-sighed half-grumbled. "He's not going to be that stupid, Michael. If he doesn't want you to find him, that's the last place he would go." "Unless... Cecil's cameras started rotating in victorious delight as Mike looked out the window toward Xin. "...he has an good reason to be there. That was fast. He's inside the mansion, I take it?" "You aren't planning on going down there, are you?" The cameras stopped rejoicing as Vilya's cat pawed at one of them, uncertain as to it's edibility. "I'd like to know more about the Ariens themselves. They're playing some part in this, Cecil." "And probably on both sides of the court, knowing how psyches are." Mike smirked. It was like Cecil to understate the galaxy's most common prejudice just to needle him. He was probably baiting for the sort of reaction that could get them into an hours-long argument. Anything to waste time and keep Mike from going there. Cecil would simply consider it a friendly favor on his part. "I'm going down there. I don't believe Johanes will carry out his threat." "Well, then say hello to the rioters. Tell them you're a nice neghrali and maybe they won't hurt you either." "I doubt I'll see any. Whatever unrest there is in Xin is not being directed against the Ariens." "Oh really?" "Yeah, really." "Anger, once sparked, burns a path toward the most opportunistic form of release, no matter how malign or misdirected." "What idiot said that?" The quote flashed across the three-vee. Below it, "Shattered Eden, Michael J. Harrison, Tyberian Publications." Mike scratched his head trying to figure out whether or not Cecil was pulling his leg. "So I write a lot of stupid things. Big deal." "What are you going to gain by going over there?" "Maybe I'll be able to talk to Mr. Arien. I met him briefly, the last time I was here." "Met him?" "Okay, Tara met him. I was there." "Along for the ride." "Yeah. All right. I don't really expect him to remember me, but if he does, it could be the break I need." "Or break you don't need." "You have a better idea?" Cecil shrugged, "Investigate from afar. It's less dangerous." "If I had access to Cindy, I would." "SNDI? Supernatural Data, Incorporated? You've got it, Michael. What do you think the Doggie Blitz runs on? A VIK-20?" Mike tried to formulate an appropriate response as Cecil taught him how to hook into the phone jack. From what he gathered, higher brain functions were off-limits to all save the super-users or "wizards" as they were called. Mike considered calling the favor, but he figured that lower-brain would be just fine as long as he could avoid running into snags. Cecil retired to the balcony. Outside, the warm, jetting waters of the Sintrivani carried a late evening crowd high above the dispersed illumination save for the few strands of blue and purple laser light captured within the misty fog. "Woof!" Mike jumped slightly, though the cat seemed neither to notice nor care. The noise was in his head, no more than an electrical illusion. "Access. File. Information. Library. Galactic Press." "...Woof!" "Does that mean..." "Woof!" "Damnit." "...Woof!" "Access. File. System. Output parameters. Errors. Command. Set format. Long." "...Pant pant." Mike rubbed the side of his face. For a moment, he could almost smell wet, sticky, dog breath. "Very funny." "...Woof! Illegal command ignored." "Access. File. System. Output parameters. Errors. Command. Ignore. Keyword woof." "...Pant pant." "Access. File. System. Output messages. Command. Galanglicize. Message. Most recent." "...Done." "Access. Userlog. Current. Command. Find. Username. Spokes." "...Done." "Query. Date. Login through logout. Most recent." "...Insufficient format specification." "Tora-centric. Positive past. Unit centim. Single decimal." "96.2 through 71.9." Mike looked out the window wondering what Spokes was up to. The evening was hacker time, and Spokes had been gone long enough to make it back to Xekhasmeno. Long enough to get pulled off the road and molested by locals, Mike figured. Cecil was leaning back in a lounge chair, luxuriating in his abstinence from the electronic environs as thin layers of warm mist settled over him and the gleeful screams of children resounded in the distance. He used to say that he needed the condo to get away from it all. Then, when he was rested, he'd go back into a little cubicle somewhere and not be seen for days or weeks. It didn't make a great deal of sense to Mike, but then a lot of things didn't make much sense. He hoped that Spokes had the same idea. Better isolation than dislocation. "Access. File. Information. Library. The Aggressor. Interstellar society page. Command. Search. Keyword Arien." "...Insufficient file specification." "Most recent." "...Done." "Say file." "...Incompatible format error." "Show file." A page of the local paper appeared in glowing blue Calannic in front of Mike's face. Even blinking his eyes refused to dislodge it, and whoever scanned it into memory hadn't bothered to reduce it into text. Instead, it was simply an image with a list of keywords attached to it. Sloppy but cost-efficient. As he began to scan the first few lines, Mike realized that the article wasn't about the Arien family at all, but he instantly recognized the picture. Long, dark hair fell straight along her spine, her sharp, brown eyes watching the row of black grav-limos rising from a well manicured lawn. The color of the cars clashed against her white evening dress, her shoulders bare save for the reflection of headlights on deep, bronzed skin. In the background, a crowd of people were escaping the Lion's Den. Mike remembered the awards ceremony all too well. The headline read, "Draconian Ambassador Disappears." "Cecil!" "...Illegal command ignored." "Command. Pause." Cecil poked his head in. "What is it?" "I got something. How do I display this on the three-vee?" Cecil strolled in, unplugging Mike and plugging himself in with two swift motions of his wrist. The image appeared on the depth box a moment later. "You know her?" Mike nodded, "I met her at an awards banquet just before coming to Calanna. It looks like this image was taken just after it." "How did this turn up?" "It says she was married to..." Mike read the paragraph again, still shaking off his disbelief. "...Alister Arien. An unnamed source in the Draconian Embassy blamed the DSS. I don't believe this." "Good. The written word is rarely worth believing." "Why would they kidnap their own ambassador?" "Cloak and dagger stuff. Conspiracy of hate. You know how it is." Mike looked up incredulously. His old friend wore a fool's grin, the sort he'd throw on for guests he was planning on throwing out. Mike stood up, stepping toward the door. "You don't buy any of this, do you." "It's a local rag, Michael. The Aggressor rarely prints anything worth reading beyond its entertainment value. Too bad Doggie Blitz doesn't carry The Galactican. But then we'd have to deal with those silly writers' royalties, not to mention all varieties of interstellar propaganda." Mike winced, "I'm not biting, Cecil. I have to get to the Arien mansion." "You already know Cecil's opinion." "That I'm being hideously stupid?" The nearest camera nodded, and Cecil sighed. "Before you go, there's something more you should know." "Such as?" "Found something interesting while sifting through the booty from that android brain." "Robin?" "She had some very peculiar orders, Michael. Orders which she had to consult before deciding to fry you. She was to kill you and Niki upon touch down and then report to her temporary supervisor for further instructions." "Clay?" "A chap by the name of William Walker." Mike blinked, "Bill?" "One and the same." "That doesn't make sense." "If she recognized him and he had the proper access code, then he could have gotten inside just like we did tonight. Judging from these orders, he could have gotten further." "Why would Clay turn her over to Bill? Why would he send us on this mission just to kill us?" Cecil smiled, "A change of plans, perhaps? Now, at least, you and Johanes might have something interesting to talk about. Give the Draconian Cecil's warmest regards. Translation: if he blinks, fry him." * * * Evening descended into night as Mike approached the outskirts of Xin, his impatience forcing a speed well beyond the limits proscribed by Calannan law. Judging from the radio reports, however, he wouldn't have to worry about being pulled over. The police were most likely busy in the inner city, quelling the incessant looting and vandalism. He'd seen riots before. Even in his early youth, he'd learned what to expect. What made "Shattered Eden" a success wasn't so much the accurate description of such events. It was the human nature that got people, the law of opportunism as Cecil might have called it. To Mike, it was just sloth. People liked to take the easy out in nearly all endeavors whether they were flagellating their brains in the electronic void or expressing rage at things they only barely understood. Even the grand Imperial bureaucracy which sought to destroy an entire world had shied away from the big bang approach. Too messy, they must have figured: bad for interstellar relations. Germ warfare had been far easier for them, far less newsworthy. These locals were no different. Mike knew they would try to hit the obvious targets. But unlike Eden, the two most obvious targets, the Arien mansion and Xekhasmeno, were both out of the way and very defensible. The Calannans could fume and fuss, destroy small businesses, even kill a few unfortunates. But if they wanted to make the sort of statement worth making, they'd have to take casualties. Mike suspected that few rioters would be so inclined, because at heart, those most indolent were often the most cowardly. Thus, the Arien mansion resembled not so much a war zone as a refugee camp. Bathed in the moon's faint luminescence, a quarrelsome throng resided outside the front gates, tossing occasional molotovs onto the lawn and shouting threats into the studded darkness. Mike parked at the side of the road among the other vehicles and started circling the mansion grounds on foot to glean some idea of his chances. He guessed that the direct approach would likely constitute a recipe for suicide, as just outside the moat, he could discern the movement of clumsy shapes in the darkness: a row of Alister's mutated minions most probably. He could imagine the worgs wearing hungry grins, the sort normally reserved for career bureaucrats and used grav-car dealers named "Slim-price Sam". Half way around, he spotted the yellow motorbike. It sat beside a row of shrubs on the near side of the moat, plainly visible from the fence but hidden from the mansion itself. Mike figured that either Johanes was taking half-hearted precautions or he was planning a swift get-away. Another step yielded sudden pain from below. Several thick cords of barbed wire lay strewn about, one snagged on his bare foot. Mike knelt down, tearing it loose with a determined yank. Someone had cut it off the top of the gate, motion sensors and all, and a new wire was strung loosely between the severed ends carrying electricity from one side to the other but skipping the portion in between. Mike climbed up and over, smearing blood on the cermelicon rails and finally settling himself on estate grounds just inside the gate. As though on cue, the noise of gun spray cracked through the air. Mike froze, huddling into a ball before he realized that he wasn't a target. The gun towers were firing on the front gates as gas canisters exploded in the crowd's midst. Though nearly half a kilometer distant, Mike could still see the gates open, cermelicon railings reflecting the moonlight as they slid to the side allowing the worgs to charge through. It was a slaughter, pure and simple, and those who couldn't make it back to their vehicles were chewed up and left to rot on the blood stained pavement. Mike picked himself off the grass, the moments ticking in his mind with each heartbeat in his ears as he began bolting toward the mansion. Every stride ate precious time, but with all attention focused on the front gate, Mike skidded to a halt beside Johanes' bike having apparently attracted no notice whatsoever. The bike's motor idled quietly, its noise muffled by a black, plastic jacket. A long, insulated tube extended from the jacket, running to the moat beneath the shrubbery. It was a cooling sheath, Mike guessed, keeping the bike both quiet and invisible to infra-red sensors as well as protecting it from overheating. Reaching up, Mike gently switched off the motor and pocketed the key, glancing toward the moat as though it were an after- thought, a fifteen meter wide after-thought with gun towers looming overhead and tales of a moat monster fully appreciated. Still, the mansion walls beckoned, and Mike knew he'd never have a better chance. The water was warm and mucky, its thin layer of brown surface jelly sending memories of Aiwelk tumbling about in his head. Holding the automatic pistol overhead, Mike tried wading across but sunk into the deep, slimy mud along the moat's banks. He finally resorted to lodging the barrel between his teeth and dog paddling like a mad man. Leafy, moist vegetation hugged the mansion's stone walls amidst a tapestry of drab moss which dipped gently into the water. The thin vines were surprisingly strong, and Mike found himself climbing upward toward the second floor windows when he felt an annoying tug at his legs. The moat had extruded a long, grey tentacle which had wrapped a determined hold around his ankles. "Good evening, Mister Harrison. So good of you to drop by." Mike nearly fell off the wall, his mud caked hand frozen just inches from his mouth. The voice came from the nearest gun tower. He could see Mr. Arien's head sticking from a window one floor above him, his sparse, silver hair glittering in the dim moonlight. Johanes stood beside the old man, a dour grimace painted across the Draconian's lips. The barrel of a rifle poked out an adjacent window, its laser sights cutting a fine beam of light through the damp air between it and the back of Mike's neck. "At a loss for words?" Mike spat, propelling the pistol from his mouth into the murky water below. The grey tentacle immediately retreated back beneath the surface either in response to some unseen command or in order to examine its new, metallic visitor. "That's better." Someone handed Arien a flimsi. "Let's see what we have on you. Mmmm... juicy. You've been up to mischief, young man?" "A little. Can I come inside?" "Just hang out." Mike gripped two vines and stayed put, the thought of diving back into the moat playing back and forth between his brain lobes. Leaning over slightly, Johanes seemed to whispered something into Arien's ear. "Kill him?! Our first truly determined trespasser in how many years?" Johanes winced and gritted his teeth as the old man continued. "Mr. Harrison, being that I am expecting company rather soon, I don't have a great deal of time to chit-chat, so you'll have to be brief. Why shouldn't I blast you off my walls like the bug you are, and more importantly, why does your Draconian friend want me to?" "To your first question: Ambassador Kato. To your second: he's not my friend." Mike bit his lip, half expecting to become a late night morsel for the moat creature. Arien, however, seemed to frown in consideration. "Bring him up." The rope was easier to climb than wall carpet, and Mike accepted the invitation with a healthy tug. Inside, Johanes and Arien were surrounded by a number of guards, each wearing black body armor and carrying automatic rifles with electronic sights. Perfect for sniping the locals, Mike figured, though a bit long ranged for disposing of nosy gatherers. "Do not be afraid, Mr. Harrison. I have no intention of killing you so long as you speak the truth. Where is she?" Mike gulped down, trying to conjure the knowledge as Johanes answered for him. "You're wasting your time. He knows nothing. If you refuse to punish him directly, Alister, at least turn him over to the police." "Silence, Draconian. I wish to hear what he has to say." Mike looked back toward the open window. Muddy footprints left his trace easily visible. He shook his arms off, finally turning toward Arien with a discouraged shrug. "I don't know where she is. The last time I saw the Ambassador was on Tizar. She wanted me to come here to Calanna." "To do what?" "To die, apparently, or so Robin said." "Robin?" Johanes stepped between them, "We don't have time for this nonsense, Alister. Sule will be arriving with the Ambassador and Erestyl at any moment." Mike squinted, "Sule? ISIS?" "Stay out of this, Michael." "ISIS is coming here?! What, their mind scanners didn't work, so you're cooperating?" Mike gazed, incredulously. "I'm warning you..." "No. No, you're not. You want Erestyl. One bullet, and it'll be over. You're aware of the nuclear detonation today, Mr. Arien?" "Michael!" "There's a fair chance that the Ambassador was at ground zero. You already know that I'm wanted by the police for homicide. Well Johanes here isn't wanted for anything, and it's very likely that he's guilty of murdering your wife." "Michael, we're not playing games here! Your fantasies will have to find another audience." "Why the fast getaway, Johanes? You planning to just kill and run?" "I have no intention of running." Johanes drew a pistol from his coat, an integral laser pistol to be more exact. It's polished iridium handle made it look more like a hood ornament than a weapon, however, with it aimed between his eyes, Mike didn't doubt its lethal competence. Given the proper setting, he'd seen such devices carve holes in flesh so neatly, they could cauterize the wounds they inflicted before spilling a single drop of blood. He guessed that Johanes had been saving this weapon for a special occasion and tried to feel honored. "No!" The voice was Arien's, and Johanes obeyed it, if only for a moment. "Alister..." "Put it down." "I am politely asking your permission to kill this liar." "Put it down or be punctured." Nearly every automatic rifle in the room pointed toward the Draconian, the glint of steel wary with expectation as three of the guards crouched down at the corners to avoid the cross fire. It was the sort of threat that would be carried out with neither postponement nor afterthought, and Mike watched, silent and breathless, as Johanes, wavering with indecision, reluctantly complied. "Restrain him." "Of for... there's no need to..." "Remain still, Johanes. I do not wish to see you damaged. Please continue, Mr. Harrison. Your hypothesis intrigues me." Mike sat down on the window sill, oblivious for once to the squashing sound of his muddy pants. He imagined falling backwards into the moat, nose cartilage sunken deep within his skull and Johanes' boot print embedded firmly upon his face. Johanes was thinking it too. His eyes betrayed him, if not his fists or the veins in his neck. Throat dry with expired fear, Mike swallowed a warm drop of saliva and blinked in consideration of where to begin. "It's no longer hypothetical." Mike withdrew the key from his pocket. "Your fence has a hole in it. Just across the moat you'll find Johanes' bike. There's a cooling sheath wrapped around the motor. That he was planning a quick escape was obvious. I just couldn't figure out why. Now I can. If Sule is coming here with Erestyl, it means that the mind scanner wasn't a success. They need a telepath to get inside his head. Somebody good. Like you. Am I right?" "Continue." "However, you've never worked for Imperials, at least not to my knowledge, and according to Kitara, you have as much reason to hate them as I do." Arien's eyes sparkled at his recollection of the Siri. "You knew Kitara?" "Very well. You probably don't remember me, but we've met before. A year ago. She told me a few things about you. If you're working for the Imps, you must have a very good reason. That's where Ambassador Kato comes in. ISIS has her. Just stop me if I'm wrong." "You're right." "Are you're certain she's still alive?" Arien looked down, drawing a deep breath. "No. However, as long as the possibility remains..." "You'll do anything for anyone. And Johanes here, he's to deal with Sule as soon as the Ambassador is safe. To let Imperial blood fall on Draconian hands. Pardon my candor, Mr. Arien, but you're a fool." "Perhaps." "Did Johanes explain to you what's at stake?" "He didn't have to. I've known of the Prometheus device for some time." "Prometheus device?" Arien glanced toward Johanes, his eyes betraying a mixture of uncertainty and solicitation. "He doesn't know?" Johanes shook his head, "I was trying to protect him from the details. Now, what does it really matter?" Mike broke in, "What about this Prometheus device?" "At first," Arien took a deep breath, "I didn't believe such a weapon could possibly exist. I'm no technical genius, Mr. Harrison, but what I know of it sends shivers down my spine, like the C-bombs of Paulo's reign must have horrified citizens of the first Imperium." "What does it do, precisely?" "It's essentially harmless, actually. It inverts the polarity of gravitons." "Then what makes it so special?" "The way it does it. The inversion takes the form of a chain matrix." "I don't get it." "You engage the device, and it proceeds to rotate the vector of gravity throughout the entire gravity field. In a small object, say the size of a planet, the inversion lasts only for a millisecond, enough to generate some substantial earthquakes but nothing more. Engage it within a large object, say the size of a star, and the process lasts slightly longer, resulting in a distortion of the stellar core and what the Imps have termed the Halo of Prometheus. It's more like the halo from hell." Mike stared dumbly ahead, unable to blink much less focus. "It seems that gravity is like most other sciences," Arien continued. "The more we learn, the more dangerous we become." "Pardon the obvious question, but is she worth it?" Arien looked confused, then insulted, then finally a mixture of the two. "How am I supposed to answer that?" "You're not even sure that she's still alive. Johanes must have told you that much." "He was very up-front. He wanted me to allow him to kill Erestyl. He argued that the likelihood of retrieving the Ambassador intact was simply out of the question, and perhaps it is." "Then why don't you?" Arien sighed. "She needn't be entirely intact. If I know the Imps, they'll try their own particular brand of mental mutilation." "The mind scanner?" "There are ways of repairing such injuries given the proper precautions, and Draconians are, generally speaking, very cautious people." He cast a wry glance toward Johanes. "I'd thought I'd convinced this Draconian to bide his time, to wait for the right moment, however, it seems that he has reverted to his original idea. Kill them both, and leave old Alister to pick up the pieces. Who can tell why? Perhaps he expected that the right moment would never come, that it was stolen by things that go boom." "Nuke?" Arien nodded, "I'd always known it was a fitting nick-name. Her temper was rather explosive. But if I'd known what would be her end..." Johanes coughed, "Look, she could still be alive. I mean, considering that both Sule and Erestyl apparently survived, it's not impossible." "But the gatherer here is correct. Whether or not she still lives, you tried to sacrifice her like some..." "I know what I did! I'm not pleased about it anymore than you, but I'd do it again." "Yes, of course. You were just being cautious." A small, metallic sphere floated in through the door, a red light flashing at its zenith. "Speak." "Sule has arrived, my lord. She is outside the front gate awaiting permission to enter." "Grant it. Guards, make our guests comfortable." Arien left, bequeathing his private soldiers with a simple if indefinite task. Mike stood back, smiling ever so slightly as Johanes was physically searched in the most comprehensive manner allowable by law. Being that Calannan law was rather lax on such matters, he had some time to wait and wonder if he was to be their next victim. Several minutes later, they found themselves in a basement cell, Johanes wearing a towel one of Arien's more generous employees had loaned him. He stood in the cell's corner, feet together and legs slightly bent, the white towel knotted around his waist. Mike tried to churn forth a wholesome expression. "Did it hurt?" Johanes merely gritted his teeth in response, angry eyes glaring stubbornly at the opposite wall. Mike nodded, trying to look sympathetic. "I'm just asking, because if you think you need a proctologist or anything..." "Shut-up, Harrison." "Right... um," Mike paused, searching for the right words, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?" Johanes ignored him, wincing as he shifted his weight slightly. "Were you really going to shoot me back there?" "Yes." "You were." "Absolutely." "May I ask why?" Johanes snorted and then winced again as the vibration crawled down along his spine. Mike looked away, granting him some private latitude for expression of discomfort. "I mean, it's a little extreme, isn't it? To shoot somebody?" "Why don't you ask Bill Walker." "Where did you hear about that?" "Various places. Before the operation you were telling Cecil all about it." Mike shook his head, "Then you heard it was self-defense, and Bill was a friend." "A friend, perhaps. As for self-defense, I understand that he was unarmed." "I had no choice." "Precisely. You were protecting your own precious hide from an unarmed friend as you put it. I, on the other hand, am trying to protect millions of people." Mike smiled, "Let me get this straight. You pull out a laser with every intention of carving holes in me, and two cents later you're calling my morality into question?" "You got it. Oh, and by the way, I didn't have the heart to tell you this before, but you'll probably figure it out sooner or later. Your friend was working for the Imps, true enough, but he didn't know it until it was too late. He thought he was working for the DSS, for John Clay to be more precise. He didn't really know what he'd gotten himself into until Sule came prancing along." Mike stared back incredulously, the smile wiped from his face as thoroughly as if he'd been hit by a ton of bricks. Johanes simply nodded and continued. "ISIS found out about Erestyl being on Tizar when Clay, one of our boys, decided he was getting a lousy deal from the agency. He cleverly diverted our internal investigations after the raid on the med-center by shifting the blame for Erestyl's capture to you. Then he disappeared, and that disk you stole from the Solomon mansion... that disk you left in Walker's hands... it became extremely valuable to ISIS. I don't know whether Clay told your friend what to expect from Robin upon reaching Calanna or whether he just figured it out by himself, but either way, Walker saved your life, and you repaid him by blowing a hole through his chest. Why, if it wasn't for your juvenile curiosity combined with those amazing trigger-happy reflexes, your friend would still be alive." Mike held his breath for a moment to keep from bolting to his feet. Getting into a fight with Johanes was not something he would let himself be talked into. "You're twisting it, Jo. He was with Sule. He was trying to get me captured by ISIS." "For questioning. My guess is that he figured that you knew just about nothing regarding Erestyl. Sule probably promised him that you'd be set free, and who knows, you might very well have been at that point. You were still blissfully ignorant, and you'd already done them a great service. You played right into their trap, after all." "You don't honestly believe that." "What you or I believe isn't particularly important. It's what Bill believed that is interesting. You wrote him off as a traitor without even bothering to attend the funeral. When the locals got around to doing an autopsy on the body, they found the primary arteries in his neck already shattered. The culprit was a tiny capsule with its own radio receiver, timing mechanism, and explosive charge courtesy of ISIS. Their leverage over him, Michael. Your friend knew that he'd made a huge mistake. He knew that you were in the process of making another similar mistake, and he wanted to get you out of the picture as quickly and as painlessly as possible, even if it meant handing you over to the Imps. As far as he was concerned, they'd catch you sooner or later." "The psyche bloodhound?" Johanes nodded, "Before the Imps admitted to having Ambassador Kato, they had Mr. Clay pay Alister a social call. Clay, I am told, was very convincing in blaming Kato's capture on rogue elements in the DSS." "Arien couldn't see through it?" "Clay has a psionic shield implant. If you don't believe me, why don't you look at his file. I'm sure Cecil could supply it now that he's virtually jumped Robin." Mike took a deep breath. "Okay. So that's how they were able to track me. Why the hell are you telling me all this?" Johanes shrugged, "Why not? You're not long for this world anyway, given that Vlep still lives." "His name is Vlep?" "Yeah." "Great. You missed him. I can tell you for a fact, he's still out there." Johanes cocked his head sideways. "What makes you so certain?" "I hand-cuffed him to a steering wheel this morning." Johanes coughed, "You what?" "It's a bit of a story." "We seem to have a bit of spare time." * * * Despair curled about the corridor like knotted strands of raw meat, a nourishing meal, though people rarely gobbled it with enthusiasm. Pausing, she carefully rested her hand upon the stone tile. Johanes and several of the guards had passed recently. Remnants of their emotions lay scattered carelessly, and yet there was more, the gatherer she had yet to meet. He was neither angry nor dutiful. Instead, he seemed relieved, as though being jailed in the mansion's dungeon had been more reprieve than punishment. Why Sule had requested him, she could scarcely imagine. The bio-synthe was difficult to read. So many of them turned out deranged, trying to establish a telepathic rapport was rarely worth the effort. Mixtures of fear and respect pressed quickly away as the guards stepped aside to let her pass, and with a slight motion of her thumb, the one at the end opened the tall, brown door. Its metal plating was rusty with age, and its grey, galvorn lock jutted out conspicuously like some misbehaved organ. Inside, Johanes was leaning against the wall as the gatherer sat on the bench, looking up cautiously, his eyes keen and brown, a web of fear swept over whatever curiosity still lingered. "Korina?" Johanes pressed against the bars. "Kori... tell me you've come to let me out of here." "In your dreams, Draconian. Father sent me for the gatherer." She watched the figure on the bench. He stood slowly, naked save for a pair of mud-caked britches. Turning, Johanes slumped his shoulders. "Sule wants him, eh? We'd already assumed as much." "Get out of the way." Johanes complied, escalating Mike forward with a swift boot to the back. "Go ahead, Michael. And good fortune. You'll need it." Mike let himself be escorted down the corridor. Two guards stayed behind them, their rifles ready for a moment's distraction. The young woman at his side seemed to ignore them, her green eyes lost in a dreamy haze. As they passed a row of windows, he considered making a break for it. To die with bullets in his back or bullets in his front, it made little difference. Even the gullet of the strange moat creature seemed preferable to a meeting with Sule. Green eyes watched him from the corners of their vision. "Don't be afraid. As long as you are here, my father will see to your safety." Mike nodded doubtfully, the poke of a muzzle nudging his spine. "And what about Erestyl?" "He is Imperial property." "Oh," Mike gulped, "so that's how it works." She stopped in the antechamber before the sanctuary. Mike remembered the mauve carpet and indigo tapestries all too well. Tara had been ignoring him the night of their visit, so he'd wandered around until he was sure he was lost, eventually winding up in the meditation chamber with his head poked out a window, sky-diving snot wads and half-nibbled hors d'oeuvres on the patrolling worgs. She found him after a few direct hits, apparently aware of some bizarre sense of satisfaction he was feeling and curious as to its source. They ended up spending half the night there before the servants finally kicked them out. Green eyes stared through him, her expression lingering in the grey stretch between curiosity and bewilderment. Mike looked back at the floor and consciously cleared his mind. "My thoughts are my property." She opened her mouth as if to respond and then shut it again. Mike regarded her indecision with contempt. "If you have something to say, say it." "I was curious as to why she wants you." "Sule? Why don't you read her like you did me?" "She..." green eyes narrowed, "it is difficult." "Must really stink to have a puzzle, eh?" "I'll survive." Mike let his annoyance fade into a mediocre smirk. "Are we going in or not?" She thumped the base of her palm against the door, the resulting sound dull but determined, and as though by its own volition, the wooden barrier slid quietly into the wall. Sule stood at arm's reach, her silver hued eyes glinting with the barest trace of anger. Mike tried gulped down. "You called?" _ /| \`o_O' Jim Vassilakos ( ) <--- jimv@ucrmath.ucr.edu U ucsd!ucrmath!jimv (uucp) Aachk! ------------------------------------------------------------------ Back chapters available via anonymous ftp on potemkin.cs.pdx.edu (131.252.20.145) in the pub/frp/stories/harrison directory. ------------------------------------------------------------------