"No. He was killed shortly after that. Not surprising." Xris grunted. "Those who deal with the Hung have a habit of dying prematurely. But I read his report."

 

    "And you believed it."

 

    "Why the hell shouldn't IT"

 

    "Yes, why shouldn't you? The bureau told you that what you had long suspected was true. Rowan had been on the take. The Hung had bought him. Dalin Rowan let you and your partner walk into that factory, knowing it was going to blow up. He wanted you dead. Why?" Wiedermann shrugged. "Probably figured you had caught on to him. You were going to expose him. That's the reason the bureau gave you, wasn't it.'?"

 

    Xris didn't respond.

 

    "The bureau claimed that they had been searching for Rowan all this time. No luck. They said he was probably living on some tropical paradise, richer than Snaga Ohme. You said you were going to track Dalin Rowan down if it took you the rest of your life. The bureau was extremely helpful. Extremely. How long did you look for Rowan?"

 

    "A year," Xris answered, chewing on the twist. "Then I ran out of money."

 

    "Find any trace of him?"

 

    Xris shook his head. "It was like he dropped off the edge of the universe."

 

    "In a way, he did," said Wiedermann softly.

 

    Xris's fist clenched. "You have found him. Goddammit, you've found him!"

 

    Wiedermann shifted his gaze, regarded Xris speculatively, curious to see his reaction to his next statement. "Yes, I found him. The bureau lied to you. They knew where he was all along. They know where he is."

 

    Xris sat very still. LED lights flashed, tiny beeps and clicks ran up and down his cybernetic ann, indicating a systems check. One of the lights flared red instead of the usual yellow and green. Xris made a minor adjustment without thinking about it.

 

    "That doesn't surprise me," he said after a moment. "For someone to disappear that completely, he'd had to have had help. But if he was on the take--"

 

    "All the better. Gave the bureau leverage. Here's what we were able to find out. About nine months after the explosion, while you were in the hospital, the bureau cracked a big case--one of their biggest ever. They broke up the Hung, the largest crime syndicate in the inner part of the galaxy. One of their undercover agents had infiltrated the Hung's organization, raided their computers, probed their files, discovered everything about them. Contacts, bribes to government officials, tax evasion schemes, money laundering, phony corporations, dealings with the Corasians--he found out everything. Not only did this infiltrator raid their files, he made a few 'adjustments,' mined them financially. That hurt the organization worse than their leaders doing prison time."

 

    "Computers," said Xris. "Rowan."

 

    "Right. He spent months patiently worming his way into the system, burrowing deeper and deeper, crawling through layer after layer. He knew all their secrets, every one. And he used those secrets to bring them down. He spent another couple of months on the witness stand, laying those secrets bare. Two attempts on his life were made during the trial. God knows how many others that were never made public. When the trial was over, Dalin Rowan walked out of the courtroom and was never seen again. The bureau gave him a new identity."

 

    Xris frowned, thinking. "What about Armstrong?"

 

    "Like you, he was trying to track Rowan down. Obviously, he succeeded. He was probably the one who led the agency to Rowan, who was already in bed with the Hung. Nice and convenient."

 

    "And instead of blowing the traitor's head off, the bureau uses him!" Xris took the twist out of his mouth, leaned forward. "What have you got? A name, a planet? That's all I need. Give that to me and we'll call it a deal. I'll take it from here."

 

    "Ah, this is where I enter a moral and legal dilemma," Wiedermann stated sonorously.

 

    "Fuck it!" Xris swore. "I'm paying you enough to get over your moral and legal dilemma. I want to talk to him, that's all."

 

    Wiedermann studied Xris, gazed at him long and intently.

 

    The cyborg could see his own metal body reflected back to him in the detective's pale and watery green eyes.

 

    "Having heard your story, I would say that you are entifled to that much," the detective conceded. "If anything goes amiss--"

 

    "You won't be involved."

 

    "Damn right, we won't be," Wiedermann snapped. "I've already established that you lied to us. Our lawyers have indicated to me that we'll be in the clear--"

 

    "Clear for what? You worried about the bureau? Hell, this was almost nine years ago. We've gone through a major change of government since then. PISA's still around, of course, but I doubt if anyone's left in the department who remembers--"

 

    "Not the bureau," said Wiedermann shortly. "I'll bring up the file."

 

    He swiveled in his chair, rolled the chair over to one of the computers, and placed his hands on the keyboard. Data and a blurred picture scrolled rapidly past Xris's vision. A printer whirred. Hard copy slid out into a tray, including-Xris could see from his vantage point--a color photograph. Xris waited with ill-concealed impatience while Wiedermann examined the documents, collated them, tapped them into neat order on the desk, then handed them over to Xris.

 

    The photograph was on top.

 

    Xris looked at it, looked up at Wiedermann. "Who's this?"

 

    "Dalin Rowan. Not his real name now, of course."

 

    Xris frowned, eyes narrowed. "What is this? A joke?"

 

    "I never joke."

 

    "Neither do I." Xris rose to his feet. Flinging the photo and the rest of the data onto the desk, he leaned over it, leaned into Wiedermann's face. "I paid you--paid you damn well--to get information for me. As for what I do with that information, that's none of your goddam business! You--"

 

    "Please, sit down," Wiedermann said.

 

    "Not until you give me my information! The real information!" Xris clamped his metal hand over Wiedermann's collar, bow tie and all, and twisted. The tie crumpled into a wad. Wiedermann tilted his head back; his Adam's apple bobbed up over Xris's fingers.

 

    "That is the information," Wiedermann croaked, remaining calm. "Read it, if you don't believe me. Frankly, I didn't believe it myself. But when you think about it--"

 

    Xris let loose, shoved Wiedermann backward. The cyborg remained standing a moment longer, glaring, deciding what to do. Slowly, he relapsed back into his chair and, grudgingly, picked up the data, including the photograph. He looked at it again.

 

    Dalin Rowan had been two meters tall, with dark hair, slender build, brown eyes, and a wide and infectious smile. Above all, Dalin Rowan had been a he.

 

    The picture Xris held was of a she.

 

    Most definitely--a she.

 

    "You have to admit," Wiedermann said in admiration, "it's the ultimate disguise."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 6

 

 

 

    On ne ne$ pae femme: on le devient. One is not born a woman: one becomes one.

 

    Simone de Beauvoir, Le deuxieme sexe

 

 

    "lid arlene Mohini." Wiedermann had run off his own copy of the data in the file, was reading aloud. "Thirty-six. Unmarried. No children."  Xris snorted.

 

    "She has a very neat little history. All completely phony, of course. Employment record, college transcript. I'm surPrised the bureau didn't make her homecoming queen. Her fake history is seamless. Not a gap. As you can see, the bureau was even able to forge a past realistic enough for her to gain her security clearance."

 

    "Rowan did that, not the bureau," Xris muttered.

 

    He stared at the photo. It had been taken by a hidden cam as she was walking down a street. He searched for a trace of his friend beneath the makeup. The jawline, perhaps. The eyes were a possibility. If he could once see that smile . ..

 

    Xris felt slightly dizzy, as if his internal computer system had gone on the blink, screwed up his chemical balance, was feeding him too much jQice. He popped open his wrist, did a quick systems analysis. All registered normal.

 

    "A disguise, you said." Xris shifted his gaze to Wiedermann. "Rowan goes around all day dressed up like a womanm"

 

    "Ah, I didn't quite mean 'disguise,'" Wiedermann amended. "He's not merely dressing the part. Or perhaps I should say 'she.' We located the hospital where they performed the surgery."

 

    Xris gaped. "What? You don't mean-- Look, a change in identity means that a guy shaves his beard, not his legs! He gets a new driver's license. He doesn't have certain body parts whacked off and others added on!"

 

    Wiedermann said nothing. He merely stared pointedly at Xris's metal arm. The wrist hatch was still open, the various lights blinking, the small computer screen scrolling through its readout on the cyborg's internal workings. Xris, flushing, snapped the hatch shut.

 

    "That's different. This saved my life."

 

    "What's your point?" Wiedermann gestured to the photo. "Dalin Rowan brought down people who were worth billions, mined them financially, sent them to prison. If there is one person in this entire universe those people hate, it is Dalin Rowan. You think they can't touch him just because they're locked up?"

 

    "All right. Yeah, I know. But still ..." Xris shook his head.

 

    "You--his best friend--didn't recognize him."

 

    Xris paused, thought about that. "You're right. I wouldn't have recognized him. Her."

 

    Sure, Dalin Rowan had been worried about the Hung coming after him. But he was probably a lot more worded about someone else coming after him. Someone who'd known him so well ...

 

    Xris stared at the photo. "It's starting to make sense," he admitted. He looked up. "I suppose you've got proof. I wouldn't want to make a mistake."

 

    Wiedermann flipped the papers. "All in here. Including a DNA match--Darlene Mohini equals Dalin Rowan." "DNA match? How the devil did you get a DNA match?" Wiedermann grinned. "I understand that you are the leader of a mercenary organization. You do odd jobs for people. People who are--shall we say---high up on the social ladder. It was, in fact, rumored that you once worked for Her Majesty--"

 

    "Okay." Xris raised his hand. "We've all got our professional secrets. Just curious, that's all." He flipped through the data file, found the information on the DNA; read through it twice. Again, he shook his head, said silently, You're a clever bastard, Dalin Rowan. No wonder I ran smack into a brick wall searching for you. But I've got you now, "old friend." I've got you now.

 

    "And then there's the name." Wiedermann was rambling on. "That, to me, was the conclusive proof--from a philosophical standpoint, if you will."

 

    "What about the name? Darlene?" Xris spoke with a slight sneer. "I think Rowan once had a girlfriend named Darlene, but--"

 

    "No, not Darlene. Although the fact that both begin with the letter d and have two syllables, with the accent on the first in each case, is suggestive. No, it was the use of the name Mohini which I found significant. Your friend was a scholar, well read?"

 

    Xris shrugged. "College degree. Advanced. Computer science--"

 

    "Perhaps he dabbled in Earth religions such as Hindu? Well, never mind. Not important. According to Hindu legend, the god Shiva was so powerful that the other gods feared if he sank too deeply into meditation, the resulting energy could engulf and destroy the world. Therefore, in order to jolt Shiva from his meditative state, the other gods asked the god Vishnu to distract him. Vishnu did so by adopting the guise of a beautiful woman. Guess what her name was? Mohini." Wiedermann was triumphant. "Interesting, don't you think?"

 

    Interesting. And, yes, damn it, it was like Rowan. Always trying to put some sort of cosmic spin on every ball, whether he sank it or not. Seeing himself as a god. Saving the world. But he'd gone too far. Decided he was above the law; above the ordinary, the little people. Above honor, friendship, loyalty .... Yeah, it figured, Xris tried to tell himself.

 

    Except it didn't. Not Rowan.

 

    Xris glared at the file, frustrated. He'd come expecting answers to his questions. More that, really, than expecting to find Rowan. If I could just understand ....

 

    "So, you know where he... she lives... his... her place of employment?" Xris found this all very confusing. "In the file."

 

    The cyborg glanced through, gave a low whistle.

 

    "Now you see my problem," Wiedermann remarked. "I don't give a damn about the bureau. I don't want trouble from the Royal Navy."

 

    "You've got a point," Xris conceded.

 

    Nine years ago, the galaxy had been under the control of powerful Warlords, who had each ruled his or her sector of space with enormous battle cruisers, destroyers, spaceplane carriers, fleets of spaceplanes. Since the return of the king, the Royal Navy was now the most powerful force in the aniverse--a force to be reckoned with, run by a man Xris 'knew well. Knew and admired. Lord of the Admiralty, Sir John Dixter.

 

    Xris had worked for both Dion Staffire--now His Majesty the king--and John Dixter in the past. The cyborg tapped the paper with a finger, frowned. He didn't particularly like crossing swords with either Dion or Sir John on this one. Still, it couldn't be helped.

 

    I'll have to be extra careful, that's all.

 

    "Employee of 'RFComSec,'" Xris read. "What the hell is that?"

 

    "Royal Fleet Communications Security Establishment. We're not certain, of course, but we figure it deals with coded transmissions ship-to-ship, and such like. Mohini lives on base in secure accommodations. The base itself is classified, off limits to unauthorized personnel. We couldn't even find out where it was located." "Ideal," Xris remarked dryly.

 

    "Certainly. Mohini has the entire Royal Navy to protect her. And they probably don't even know they're doing it. As I said, she was able to obtain security clearance. Probably low-level. We couldn't find out precisely what she does. Her job description reads 'CCA-2 FCWing.'"  "Any guesses?"

 

    "Clerical work, maybe. We have no idea what CCA stands for, but a level-two employee--if that's what CCA-2 means--is usually pretty far down on the scale, wouldn't be likely to have top-security clearance, for example."

 

    Rowan, a clerk. Xris tried to imagine him... her crunching numbers, tagging files, maybe doing a little programming for variety ....

 

    He felt unaccountably sick inside; was almost sorry, at this point, that he'd gone through with this. He chewed the last bit of twist, swallowed the acrid tobacco juice, looked for someplace to deposit the wad. Wiedermann indicated a trash disposer unit on one side of the desk. Xris dumped the wad, picked up his file, prepared to leave. He needed to be out in the fresh air, needed to be by himself, needed to think.

 

    "What do I owe you?"

 

    Wiedermann rose to his feet. He was taller than Xris had supposed, tall and excessively thin. When the detective stood, his shoulders slumped forward, his chest caved in.

 

    "We'll send you our bill. It was a pleasure working on your case. A real puzzle. Your friend Rowan was clever, very clever. He didn't make many mistakes."  Just one, Xris thought. He left me alive.

 

    "Do you know how we finally got on to him?" Wiedermann was prattling on. "His medical insurance forms. They're still on file. By law, you have to keep them on file for a certain number of years. I don't suppose you ever thought of looking at those?"

 

    Xris had no comment, but he made a mental reminder of this slipup. Medical insurance. Why hadn't he thought of that? Probably the same company, the same policy that had covered him, obtained through the bureau. Rowan had never been sick a day in his life, but still ...

 

    "One of our operatives noticed your friend had been under treatment by a doctor during the trial. Could have been stress; probably what people were told. But in checking through the insurance files, our agent discovered that the doctor was administering a drag at frequent intervals. Except the drug wasn't a stress drug. Hormone shots. Female hormones. They have to inject the hormones several months in advance of the surgery. Swells the breasts, among other changes. Prepares the body and the mind, you see."

 

    Xris didn't want to see. He wished Wiedermann would shut up. The cyborg edged his way toward the door.

 

    Wiedermann trailed along behind. "Once we'd gone that far, the rest was easy. Then we ran into the death certificate. A nice touch. Almost stopped us cold." It stopped Xris. He turned, stared.

 

    "It was in the hospital computer," Wiedermann explained. "Dalin Rowan died on the operating table. Date, time. We nearly lost him there, but I figured out what he must have done. Dalin Rowan died the day Darlene Mohini was born. I knew what to look for and, sure enough, I found it--a woman checking out of that hospital who had never checked in. I included a copy of the death certificate for you. It's in the file. Thought you might be amused."

 

    A death certificate. Rowan had written his own death certificate. Well, maybe that made things easier.

 

    Xris reached the outer office, negotiated his way around the boxes of ancient, forgotten records of ancient, forgotten cases. He and Wiedermann shook hands. Wiedermann's grip was cold and damp, fishlike. Xris didn't prolong the goodbyes. He stood outside the closed door. Opening the file, he located the death certificate, stared at it, not really seeing it.

 

    He was back inside that hospital. Back inside the nights, inside the terrible pain. Back inside the days, learning how to walk, talk, see, hem' ... live all over again. If you could call it living.

 

    He snapped the file shut, was about to continue on his way out of the building when the door popped open.

 

    "Oh, by the way" Wiedermann peered out--"when you see Darlene Mohini, you might mention that if we were able to find her, so could others. Like the Hung. Her cover's blown. She's in real danger. You'll be sure to tell her that, won't you?"

 

    "Yeah," said Xris, shifting the file to his cybernetic hand, getting a secure grip on it. "I'll be sure to tell her."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 7

 

 

 

    The Way means inducing the people to have the same aim as the leadership, so that they will share death and share life, without fear of danger.

 

    Sun Tzu, The Art of War

 

 

    The large, private spacegoing vessel left Laskar at a leisurely speed. The ship--a typical research model, known as Canis Major Research /--was not supposed to be equipped to make the jump to hyperspace. Such modifications to university research ships were extremely expensive, generally unnecessary, and would have excited comment, required the need for explanations. As it was, the killers were able to slip off Laskar quietly, orbital-traffic control giving them bored clearance.

 

    Inside a small room on board the ship, one of the four men--the one who had murdered Bosk--sat in front of a computer terminal. He was working on the terminal and at the same time speaking into a coremlink. He stopped both when the hatch slid open and one of his subordinates entered.

 

    "Knight Officer. I've monitored Laskar's evening news, sir."

 

    "Yes, and--?"

 

    "The fire destroyed the building completely. A single body was discovered in the wreckage. The body was burned beyond recognition, but only one tenant remains unaccounted for and it is presumed that the body is that of an Adonian known as Bosk. The fire was suspicious in origin, believed to have started in the apartment of the dead man. He was known to have ties with the mob. Neighbors reported that four men--armed--paid the deceased a visit shortly before the fire broke out. They described the vehicle the suspects were driving. It was discovered abandoned a short time later, stripped and burned."

 

    "The local authorities are satisfied that it was the mob?"

 

    "Yes, sir."

 

    "Case closed, then."

 

    "I would say so. Yes, sir. The Laskar police will not get involved in mob business."

 

    "Very good. Tell Knight Officer Captain he may depart when ready."

 

    The subordinate nodded, departed.

 

    The leader returned to work.

 

    "You heard his report, Knight Commander?" the leader asked over the comm. "Satisfactory. Continue. What is it you have found?" The voice at the other end of the commlink was laconic, crisp, and obviously belonged to a machine. The speaker entered his or her words into the computer, the computer spoke them aloud. No one, not even the highest-ranking officer of the knighthood--of which Bosk's killer was one--ever heard the Knight Commander's voice. No one had ever seen the Knight Commander. No one knew his or her real name. All information was exchanged via commlink--voice only.

 

    "Contrary to initial reports, Commander, it appears from Ohme's files that he actually constructed a working model of the negative wave device." "Indeed."

 

    "The device was crude. apparently, but operational. Ohme's records indicate that he performed a test on a living subject. And that the test was successful."

 

    "A living subject." Knight Commander mused. "How is this possible? He wouldn't have dared test it on Derek Sagan. And if I'm not mistaken, there were no other Blood Royal known to exist at the time."

 

    "That is true, Commander. This was just prior to Sagan's discovery of the whereabouts of the young king. Snaga Ohme did not have a Blood Royal on which to test his device, but that presented no problem for him. He couldn't find a true Blood Royal and so he created one. If you will recall, sir, Ohme had an extensive collection of weapons dating back to ancient times. Appropriate for a weapons dealer.

 

    "Among his collection was a bloodsword. According to the notation in Ohme's catalog, the bloodsword was obtained during the Revolution, when most of the Blood Royal were eradicated. Inside this sword are the micromachines that are injected into the body of the Blood Royal when they insert the sword's needles into their hands. These micromachines connect the body and brain with the sword and are used to activate both the sword and its shielding device. A certain amount of these micromachines remain in the bloodstream and are activated every time the sword is used.

 

    "Ohme removed the fluid containing these micromachines from the bloodsword and injected that fluid into his test subject. He then used the newly created negative wave device on the subject and recorded the results."

 

    "Was the subject aware he or she was being used for such purposes?"

 

    "According to Ohme's account, no, the subject was not aware. Ohme feared that the subject's awareness might influence the test results."

 

    "He was probably right. Did the subject die?"

 

    "No, Commander. Ohme didn't want to kill the subject, who might prove useful to him later. Ohme wanted to study the effects of the device on the micromachines in the subject's bloodstream."

 

    "How did Ohme manage to keep such an experiment on the subject secret?" The mechanical voice held no inflection, but the officer could discern that his superior was skeptical.

 

    "The subject was a male, in his late twenties, and, according to the record, a Loft."

 

    "Slang term for habitual drug user, if I'm not mistaken?"

 

    "Yes, Knight Commander."

 

    "An expression that has its roots on Earth. The fruit of the lotus or lotophagi, as the Greeks termed it, was supposed to induce in those who ate it a state of dreamy forgetfulness, a loss of desire to return home. One might almost consider the entire human race as lotus-eaters. But they will remember their home." The voice was soft, ominous. "We will make them remember."

 

    A pause, then the voice returned to business. "Surely such a heavy drug user as a Loti would be an inappropriate candidate for testing?"

 

    "Ohme recognized this problem, sir, but determined that the drugs in the subject's system would have no influence on the micromachines and vice versa. It appears, from my preliminary investigation of the files, that Ohme was correct."

 

    The Knight Commander was not convinced. "Ohme was a genius, there is no doubt about that, but he did not possess the patience and meticulous mind of a good researcher. He obviously chose this Loti because the man was convenient and not liable to ask questions. However, we must work with what we have. What were the results of his experiment?"

 

    "Unfortunately, Commander, the exact results of the test are not recorded in the files. The last entry is dated the day on which Ohme was murdered. It reads, 'The experiment has been highly successful.' Nothing more. Bosk makes some attempt to fill in the experiment's results, but he was not in Ohme's complete confidence. Careful analysis proves that Bosk 'knew very little; most of what he added was mere speculation gained from observing the test subject, who lived and worked in Ohme's mansion."

 

    Silence from the commlink. Then, "There is nothing more?"

 

    "No, Knight Commander."

 

    "Are you certain, Knight Officer?"

 

    "Yes, sir."

 

    "Damn!" said the Commander. "We need more information!"

 

    Silence. The Knight Officer, having nothing further to contribute, maintained disciplined quiet. He made no suggestion as to their next course of action, would make none unless he was asked. Looking out the viewscreen, he watched the planet Laskar dwindle to a small green marble.

 

    A wretched planet, corrupt, vile, he thought. But really no different from countless others in the galaxy. Humanity trashes its home, flees it, seeks out others, and ends up destroying them. It is only a matter of time before it will all end out here. Then the swarm of humanity will turn their faces homeward again. Then they will come to us and say humbly, "We are sorry." ...

 

    "It would be extremely valuable to us"--the Commander spoke suddenly and abruptly, startling the Knight Officer--"if we could get our hands on the test subject."

 

    "Yes, Commander." The officer brought up the file containing information on the Loft. "Bosk had the same idea, apparently. He began to search for the man, but only in the most desultory and haphazard fashion. He soon gave up. The subject is an Adonian, as was Snaga Ohme. You are familiar with the Adonians, Commander?"

 

    "A degenerate race of people who live solely for their own pleasure and gratification. Intelligent, channing, and completely amoral. Ohme was typical of his breed. I suppose this Loti is another?"

 

    "A hired assassin, Commander. Specializing in chemical poisonings, as one might expect from someone who is dependent on chemicals. Ohme kept this Loti around to perform 'odd' jobs now and then. Ohme surrounded himself with his fellow Adonians. Bosk was another."

 

    "As a race, Adonians are extremely attractive--the men and the women. Snaga Ohme could not stand to be long in the presence of an ugly person. The only thing that overcame his squeamishness on this point was money. Continue, Knight Officer."

 

    "Yes, sir. This Loti had other advantages. He is firm friends--has an almost symbiotic relationship--with an empath."

 

    "Not unusual," remarked the Commander. "Empaths enjoy being around Loti because their drug-induced tranquillity is rarely disturbed and thus the empath is not subject to disturbing emotions."

 

    "The two were rarely apart, according to Ohme's notes. The Loti is the only one who can understand the empath. He acted as a sort of translator whenever Ohme needed to know what someone was thinking or feeling."  "What race is the empath?"

 

    "Bosk claims no one knows. The empath was always cloaked in some sort of disguise. No one ever saw the face. Ohme had no interest in trying to find out."

 

    "So long as the empath proved useful, Snaga Ohme wouldn't care."

 

    "On studying the empath's description, Commander, I think it probable that we are dealing with a Tongan."

 

    The Knight Commander was silent again.

 

    "I have examined all the facts, Knight Commander. The empath is extremely short in stature. He is always disguised, which indicates that there is something unusual about his features or his body, and the Tongans as a race are as ugly as the Adonians are beautiful. He appears to have not only empathic abilities but telepathic abilities as well. Tongans are the only race to meet all these requirements."

 

    "You know, of course, Knight Officer, that Tongans are forbidden on pain of death from leaving their home world?"

 

    "All the more reason for the disguise, sir."

 

    "Perhaps you are right. At any rate, such an unusual pair would be fairly easy to track."

 

    "Bosk had no difficulty, at first. He and the Loft kept in contact. Both of them were eager to avenge Ohme's death. But whereas Bosk had determined that Ohme was murdered by Derek Sagan, the Loti was following a different theory. He was convinced that the murderer was a man known as Abdiel. Following this theory, the Loti worked in the Exile Caf6 on Hell's Outpost, figuring that either Abdiel or someone who knew the old man's whereabouts must come to this place eventually. The last message Bosk received from him, the Loti was joining up with the late Lady Maigrey Morianna. They planned on entering the Corasian system--"

 

    "So," said the Knight Commander, "the Loft was part of that small band of heroes. His Majesty owes both his throne and his life to them. Their leader was a cyborg--a rather unusual cyborg, as I recall." "I have no information on that, sir," the officer admitted. He was not surprised that these facts were known to the commander. The Knight Commander knew every prominent and/or infamous person in the galaxy; he was familiar with the political situations on innumerable major planets; he was privy to knowledge not readily accessible to ordinary citizens of the realm. Once, when the officer had first joined up with the organization, he had used such clues in an attempt to puzzle out the Knight Commander's true identity. That had been almost twenty years ago. Now the officer--a true fanatic--no longer knew or cared. He revered. And obeyed.

 

    "No further information beyond that?"

 

    "No, sir. Bosk indicates that he never heard from the Loft again and that attempts to find him proved beyond his means."

 

    "I believe I know where to look. Return to home base, Knight Officer. Proceed with the construction of the negative wave device and await my commands. When the whereabouts of this Loti are discovered, you will be informed."

 

    "Yes, Knight Commander."

 

    "What is the Loti's name, by the way?" "Raoul, sir. And the empath is known as the Little One." "Raoul and the Little One," repeated the Knight Commander. "Yes, it is them. They are members of a mercenary team called Mag Force 7. Their leader is a cyborg known as Xris."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 8

 

 

 

    ... and, lips, 0 you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

 

    William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act 5, Scene 3

 

 

    The two minor government officials stood in the waiting area of the Modena Spaceport, looking up at a terminal displaying the arrival time for incoming flights. The time had not varied in the last thirty minutes--the transport would be half an hour late--but the officials continued to check it just the same, both of them acutely aware of the man in the dark suit. Leaning comfortably against a nearby pillar, he scanned intently the people gliding past on the moving sidewalk.

 

    "What's he looking at them for?" the woman irritably asked her companion. "We're the ones he's following."

 

    "Probably viewing them as targets on the shooting range," returned the man. "Look at the way he's smiling."

 

    The woman shivered. "Don't. This is bad enough. Do you think he suspects us?"

 

    The man considered. "No. We're only doing our job, after all. Meeting the ambassador from Adonia. I don't much like this scheme, but the cyborg is said to be one of the best in the business. We have to put our faith in someone."

 

    "More than our faith. Our very lives!" The woman swallowed, put her hand to her throat. "I... I think I'll go to the restroom."

 

    The man in the dark suit shifted his gaze to the woman, watched her enter, watched her return.

 

    "He kept an eye on you," her companion muttered beneath his breath. "No, don't look. He's still watching."

 

    "I can't stand this," the woman said. "I---"

 

    She was interrupted by the arrival of a flight attendant. "Pardon me, sir, madam, are either of you booked for this flight?"

 

    "We're meeting someone," the woman replied.

 

    The attendant nodded, relieved. "I was afraid you were passengers. You've no idea what a nightmare we go through now. All the forms that have to be filled out. Checking documents. Not that I'm complaining, mind you," the attendant added hastily. "I am in complete agreement with the government's new regulations concerning civilian travel restrictions. It's just--"

 

    The arrival of the transport saved the attendant from further indiscretions. She hurried off to unlock the door, admit the disembarking passengers, of which there were very. few. The drab, unhappy world of Modena was not a pleasant place to visit these days.

 

    "How do you suppose we'll recognize him?" the woman asked.

 

    "I don't believe we'll have much trouble," the man answered dryly. "He's an Adonian, after all."

 

    They had absolutely no trouble recognizing him.

 

    It was rather as if the full color spectrum had just breezed in by transport and, on arrival, blown up. The Adonian was dressed in a tight, form-fitting jumpsuit colored a deep royal blue. Over this he wore a floor-length vest made of garish, rainbow-hued silk that billowed out behind him when he walked, revealing purple socks and emerald shoes. The sight was actually a shock to the central nervous system of the conservative Modenans. The two government officials, stunned by the impact, were momentarily unable to move.

 

    The Adonian, seeing no one else in the vicinity and assuming, therefore, that these people must be waiting for him, flung himself in their direction and exploded in their midst.

 

    "I assume that you must be waiting for me," he cried, smiling. "I am extraordinarily delighted to make your acquaintances."

 

    The Adonian, with a graceful gesture of his hands, flipped long black hair over his shoulders and gave everyone in the vicinity his charming smile.

 

    "M-Mr. Ambassador." The man gave the formal greeting, though he was somewhat hesitant about it. Perhaps he was wondering uneasily if the appellation "Mister" was entirely correct.

 

    "Your Excellency." The woman avoided the gender problem neatly by using a title acceptable to any sex. "Welcome to Modena."

 

    The two bowed.

 

    The ambassador was an Adonian male--at least that's the sex his passport claimed. His appearance raised cause for doubt, but the fact that he was an Adonian explained everything. Like most of his people, he was, quite literally, an extraordinarily beautiful human being. He was slender, of shapely build, with delicate bone structure and a lilting, mincing walk. His hair was waist-long and gleaming black. His eyes were large and lustrous--too lustrous. Close examination revealed them to be slightly unfocused, the pupils abnormally dilated. He swayed slightly, as though in a gentle wind, and gazed about him with vague, happy curiosity.

 

    The man and woman exchanged glances. "He's on drugs," the man said out of the corner of his mouth, speaking Modenan. "A Loft!"

 

    "What do we do now?" the woman demanded. "I thought you said this mercenary force was reliable!"

 

    "We can't do anything here," the man returned grimly, with a sidelong glance at the man in the dark suit, who was stating with fixed interest at the new arrival.

 

    "Thank you," said the Adonian suddenly. "I have landed safely and soundly on your fair planet. Your welcome is most gratifying. I consider this a fortuitous omen of future friendship between our peoples."

 

    He extended a hand. The fingernails were long and polished; the fingers glittered with jeweled rings.

 

    The man took the hand, but was totally at a loss as to what to do with it, since the hand's owner did nothing with it himself. Perplexed, the man transferred the flaccid hand to the woman, who returned the hand to the ambassador as quickly as possible. The sweet, pungent scent of gardenia enveloped them.

 

    "I am Dolf Baejling, aide to the undersecretary of Foreign

 

    Affairs of Modena. This is my associate, Mary Krammes. And now, Mr. Ambassador--" the man began.

 

    "Raoul de Beausoleil," said the ambassador lightly. "Please call me Raoul, Dolf. Everyone does."

 

    "I ... I hardly believe that would be respectful, Mr. Ambassador," said Baejling, frowning.

 

    "Respectful?" Raoul gave the matter brief thought. "I don't quite understand how you can come to respect me on such short acquaintance, Doll and I certainly have no respect for you. So we nfight as well be on a first-nmne basis, shouldn't we?"

 

    Baejling frowned, insulted. Krammes laid her hand on his arm. "I don't believe he meant that quite the way it came out. We're being watched."

 

    After an inner struggle and a surreptitious glance at the man in the dark suit, Baejling managed a grudging smile. He was about to suggest that they retrieve the ambassador's luggage when Kxammes--nudging him--indicated a small and strange-looking personage who had apparently been standing close to Raoul the entire time but was only at this moment visible, due to the settling folds of silk.

 

    "I beg your pardon, Excellency," Krammes said faintly, "but what--I mean, who is ... what is ..."

 

    Raoul stared at the woman a moment as if endeavoring to remember where he'd seen her before, then--looking in the direction she was looking--he smiled.

 

    "Ah, I beg your pardon." He waved his hand. "The Little One. My constant companion. He is with me. Always."

 

    It was impossible to determine the Little One's species, race, or anything about the creature, much beyond the fact that it was, apparently, alive. The Little One said nothing. He kept his hands--if he had hands--in the cadaverous pockets of an oversized raincoat. The turned-up collar hid the lower part of the creature's face, the fedora hat hid the upper. All anyone could see of the Little One were two bright and penetrating eyes, gazing solemnly out from the shadow cast by the hat.

 

    "How ... how do you do?" Krammes said, not quite knowing how to address the apparition.

 

    The Little One gazed unblinking at the two.

 

    Krammes gulped. Baejling made a snorting sound and the two exchanged alarmed glances. The ambassador, meanwhile, was studying the spaceport with languid curiosity.

 

    But when Raoul turned to Baejling, the aide was disconcerted to note that the Loti's eyes were not quite as lustrous and unfocused as Baejling had first supposed.

 

    "Remarkably empty for such a large planet, isn't it, Dolf?" Raoul observed. "Your people don't indulge in spaceflight, I take it."

 

    Baejling glanced at the rows of empty plastic chairs, the nearly deserted hallways, the closed restaurants and shutdown vendors' stalls. The few people who were in the spaceport walked swiftly and kept their eyes on the ground, as if by refusing to acknowledge anyone else's presence they could successfully hide their own.

 

    "Off-world travel's restricted, Excellency." Baejling spoke carefully, mindful of the man in the dark suit. "Our government believes that the people of Modena have no need to leave their home world."

 

    "Isn't that marvelous," said Raoul, smack by the notion. "How very ... domestic."

 

    Baejling's frown deepened. He cleared his throat, looked hopefully at the open door leading to the spaceplane.

 

    "The other members of your party--" Dolf began.

 

    "We're it," Raoul said cheerfully.

 

    Baejling protested. "We were expecting a colleague of yours. A cyborg ..."

 

    "I beg your pardon, Dolf?. You spoke so softly, I failed to catch most of what you said." Raoul leaned near. Gardenia fragrance rolled off him.

 

    Baejling coughed. "A man named Xris."

 

    "Ah!" Light dawned. "You are referring, no doubt, to Xris Cyborg. He was not able to come. He is otherwise engaged. He sent us instead." Raoul gave his diminutive friend a tap on the fedora. "We are sufficient for the task."

 

    Dolf Baejling did not exude confidence at this statement. Mary Krammes sighed, glanced sideways at the man in the dark suit, twisted her hands together. Raoul bent down gracefully to confer with his companion, though not a word was spoken. Raoul straightened, with a jangle of bracelets.

 

    "Pardon me for mentioning this, Dolf. As I am unfamiliar with the local customs, what I am about to question may be nothing more than Modenan curiosity, but the Little One infoms me that the gentleman standing over by that pillar is taking a great deal of interest in us."

 

    Baejling did not even bother to look. "He is one of our respected secret police," he said in a careful monotone. "The government of Modena takes very good care of its citizens. He is here to ensure our safety as well as yours, Mr. Ambassador."

 

    "My safety? Are you certain?" Raoul asked, touched. "I must say, that is very kind of him. And he is rather attracfive, in a thuggish sort of way."

 

    "The secret police are extremely interested in everything that the people do," Dolf said meaningfully, hoping Raoul would take the hint. "They accompany us ... everywhere. Now if you would--"

 

    But Raoul was not to be deterred. He gazed steadfastly at the man in the dark suit. "He's not all that 'secret,' is he? For secret police, I mean. I thought those fellows usually hid in luggage bins, popped out at you from dark alleyways."

 

    "Be careful what you say!" Mary Kranunes whispered, clutching Raoul's ann. "He and his kind run the country now. They can do what they want. They have only to answer to her."

 

    "Her?" Raoul was intrigued. "Who is her?"

 

    The Little One shuffled his feet, tugged on the silken folds of the vest. Raoul glanced down, listened, then nodded. "Ah, yes. Madame President."

 

    "Damn it, keep your voice down !" Dolf cautioned angrily. He paused a moment to regain control, then said stiffly, "If you would excuse us, Excellency, I need to confer a moment with my colleague. I fear that a problem has arisen in regard to your hotel suite."

 

    Raoul gave gracious assent. Baejling drew Krammes to one side. The two began to talk in an undertone in their own language.

 

    Casting an interested glance at the man in the dark suit, Raoul smoothed his hair, fluttered his eyelids. Then he redistributed the bracelets on his arm, sliding three up above the elbow, four below. Not liking the effect, he moved the third back down below the elbow again. This accomplished, he opened a velvet drawstring bag he carried on his wrist, drew out a mirror, studied his own reflection.

 

    Running the tip of his little finger around his lips in order to repair minute smudging of his lipstick, he said to the Little One, "What are they discussing?"

 

    No one was quite certain how Raoul and the Little One communicated. So far as anyone knew, Adonians did not possess telepathic abilities. Telepaths tended to emerge from races noted for their well-developed sensitivity to the feelings of others. No one had ever accused the Adonians of such a characteristic, the Adonians being notable galaxywide for their almost complete and total self-absorption. How these two talked was, therefore, a mystery.

 

    While Raoul sometimes spoke to the Little One aloud, the Little One was never heard to speak to Raoul, or to anyone else, for that matten Only Raoul could understand and interpret what the Little One said, and how Raoul managed to do that was beyond the ability of everyone--including the leader of Mag Force 7, Xris--to figure out.

 

    The two had been part of Xris's elite commando team for almost four years now. Xris theorized that the mind-altering drugs taken by the Loti had somehow made Raoul susceptible to the Little One's thoughts. This was the only explanation for the phenomenon--that and the fact that the two had formed an unusual and exceedingly strong bond.

 

    "Isn't that interesting?" Raoul murmured in response to his partner's silent flow of information. "Dolf wants to send us packing. He doesn't trust us, doesn't believe we're capable of carrying out the contract. If we bungle the job, he fears that he and the woman will be arrested, probably killed. The Krammes woman reminds him that to get rid of us now would look extremely suspicious. How would they explain the fact that the Adonian ambassador suddenly changed his mind about establishing diplomatic ties with the Modenan government and went home? Xris Cyborg will not be pleased if they break the contract. Yes, I suppose we would get to keep file deposit .... "

 

    Raoul brushed back an errant strand of hair that had fallen over his face.

 

    "Here they come," he said quietly. "Have they reached a decision?"

 

    The Little One gave a violent nod which caused the fedora to slip down over his eyes.

 

    The two returned. Baejling was breathing heavily, gave the appearance of a man who has been in an argument and lost. Mary Krammes was pale and tight-lipped. She had triumphed, but was obviously having second thoughts.

 

    "Thank you for your patience, Mr. Ambassador. We will escort you to your hotel. Your luggage will be sent over. If you and your ... uh ... companion would accompany us to the car ..."

 

    "Is the hotel far from here, Dolf?" Raoul continued admiring his own reflection in the mirror. "Within walking distance?"

 

    "Yes, Excellency," Baejling answered cautiously, wondering what new weirdness was about to be perpetrated. "But the car is quite comfortable--"

 

    Snapping shut his mirror, Raoul returned it to the velvet bag. "My companion and I would prefer to walk, Dolf, dear, if that does not discommode you. We would love seeing the sights of your fair city. I had so little exercise on the flight over. I must have gained a kilo at least. Walking keeps the calves shapely, did you know that?"

 

    Raoul took Baejling's arm--though it had not been offered--and drew the man close. Baejling flinched, choked in the gardenia fumes, but he couldn't very well insult the Adonian ambassador.

 

    "Besides," Raoul continued languidly, "this cozy walk will give us a chance to get to know each other better. I have heard rumors to the effect that the hotels on Modena are crawling with bugs."

 

    Baejling stiffened. "I assure you, Excellency, that you are being accorded the finest accommodations--" He stopped suddenly, gave the Loti a penetrating look. "Ah, I... um... believe it would be a fine day for a walk. I must warn you, though, that the traffic noise is terrible. It's sometimes difficult to hear yourself think. You see, Excellency," he added, "everyone walks this time of day. Everyone." He cast a significant glance at the man in the dark suit.

 

    Raoul lifted a plucked eyebrow, smiled. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

 

    Baejling looked alarmed. "I don't think that would be wise--"

 

    Raoul ignored him. Releasing Baejling's arm, the Adonian walked rapidly on ahead, his high heels tapping the floor, the silken vest flowing behind him like gaudy butterfly wings. The Little One ambled along after, occasionally tripping over the long hem of his raincoat. Baejling and Krammes, slow off the mark, hastened to catch up.

 

    The man in the dark suit saw the group leaving. He prepared to follow, was suddenly intercepted by Raoul. The Adonian veered, tumed, and walked right up to the policeman, who was staring at him in astonishment.

 

    Krammes went white. Baejling swore under his breath.

 

    "What the devil is that whacked-out Loti doing?"

 

    One hand on his hip, Raoul let his painted eyes rove over the policeman's body, starting with the head, moving lingeringly down, gliding back up. The policeman flushed an ugly and embarrassed red.

 

    "Here, now--" he began roughly.

 

    "Don't be coy. I saw you watching me." Raoul gave the man a simpering wink. Reaching into the velvet bag, he drew out a gold case, flipped it open. "My card." The policeman gave the card a cold stare.

 

    Not the least disconcerted, Raoul tucked the card into the man's suit pocket, gave the pocket a caressing pat. He gazed up at the man through provocatively lowered eyelids. "I'm staying at the Grand Modenan Hotel, near the presidential palace. Ask for my room number at the desk. I'll be in ... all night."

 

    Pursing his lips, Raoul kissed the air between the two of them, favored the policeman with a melting smile, turned, and strolled off to rejoin the astounded Baejling.

 

    "It is my considered opinion that the gentleman will no longer follow us," Raoul said gravely.

 

    The policeman did not follow them from the spaceport. But, as Dolf mentioned grimly, that meant little. The police undoubtedly had backup agents in place.

 

    "They're keeping an eye on us because we're meeting with an off-worlder. Although"--Mary Krammes managed a smile for the first time since Raoul had met her--"I imagine that they no longer consider you and your companion much of a threat."

 

    The four were seated in an outdoor caf6 located along one of the tree-lined boulevards of the capital city of Modena. The volume of traffic along the major streets was heavy. The air was filled with the screech of brakes and the honking of horns. Modenans still drove wheeled vehicles, since hovercraft were banned in the city proper, with the exception of the police, whose streandined vehicles could be seen whizzing above the congested streets, sirens adding to the din. Unaccustomed to the smell emitted by gas-powered autos, Raoul held a scented handkerchief to his nose and refused all food. The location had one advantage. No one could overhear their conversation. They could barely hear each other.

 

    "This woman, Madame President, is a monster," Dolf was explaining. "Our President is a good man. Probably too good. That's how she was able to get her clutches into him. He met her shortly after he was elected to office. All of us saw what she was after. But he was blind, poor fool. He was in his fifties, unmarried. One of those scholarly types who just never seemed to get around to relationships. She's in her thirties, intelligent, charming--"

 

    "Beautiful," Mary Krammes added.

 

    "Yes, she's beautiful." Dolf shook his head. "And deadly. She married him, and almost the very next day she was grabbing the reins of power. She had her organization already in place, ready to move. She put her people in toplevel positions--Ministry of Defense, Law Enforcement, Justice Department. She either bought off the right senators or blackmailed them. Those who denounced her simply disappeared. Now the senate tamely approves all her new legislation.

 

    "You've seen the result of the travel restrictions for yourself. She's shut down all vid stations, closed up all the newsmags who opposed her. Those who spoke out were arrested. We've heard rumors of concentration camps, mass grave sites. Entire families have disappeared; their relatives don't dare ask about them for fear they'll be next. Something's got to be done.

 

    "She's surrounded by bodyguards, of course. She travels in an armored car, when she travels at all, which isn't much. She has to keep her claws in her husband."

 

    "He's a wreck," Mary added sadly. "Poor man. He was a fool, but he's paying for his folly now. You hardly ever see him in public. She makes him appear on occasion and then he's a puppet, dancing to her piping. He never opens his mouth but that he looks to her for approval."

 

    Raoul attempted to appear deeply interested and profoundly sympathetic, but his gaze wandered. He stared at the trees, the flowers, the drab people walking by--all of whom returned the favor by staring hard and suspiciously at the colorful Adonian. Finally, when this occupation grew tiresome, he sneezed, dabbed his nose with the handkerchief, and stifled a yawn.

 

    "Pardon me," Dolf said irritably, "but have you been listening to anything we've said?"

 

    "Frankly, no, Dolf," Raoul returned languidly, blinking his mauve-colored eyelids. He fluttered a delicate hand. "Why should I? You have hired the Little One and myself to murder the wife of your president." "Good God, man!" Baejling paled. "Keep your voice--" "Bah! No one can hear us. You have a guilty conscience. that's all. Which is why you are taking all this time and trouble to explain to me and my companion your own justifications and motivations. Personally I don't give a damn about you or your country or your problems. And neither does the Little One. Why should we?"

 

    The raincoated figure indicated, with a shake of the fedora, that such was the case.

 

    Mary Krammes stared into her empty wineglass. Dolf Baejling took out a neatly folded handkerchief, toyed with it.

 

    "I suppose you're right. It's just that I've never done . .. I've never even imagined..." He mopped his sweating forehead.

 

    "It's for the good of the country," Mary Krammes said automatically as if she'd been repeating the words over and over again, even in her sleep. "That woman's death is for the good of the country."

 

    Raoul shrugged. "Of course, that is what all traitors have said, since the beginning of time."

 

    Baejling rose stiffly to his feet. "We should proceed to the hotel, Excellency. Tonight is the Embassy Ball. You will be formally introduced and presented to the President and Madme President. You can meet her, get a good look at her. Tomorrow you deliver your letters of mark--"

 

    "All forged, you know. Quite a good job. We have a member of our team. His name is Tycho. He--"

 

    "Tomorrow." Baejling hung on grimly. "You will proceed to the palace tomorrow--"

 

    "Oh, we won't be staying that long," Raoul said complacently.

 

    Baejling sat back down again.

 

    "What? But--How? Surely you're not thinking of"-Baejling swallowed, lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper--"assassinating Madame President during the ball!

 

    She'll be surrounded by bodyguards! Her supporters. They'd catch you. We'd all be shot on the spot!"

 

    Raoul gazed at Baejling long moments. The Loti's drugfuzzy eyes slid into focus, became fixed and cool, without pity, without compassion.

 

    "I am an expert at my work. The Little One is an expert at his. You either trust us and allow us to proceed as we think right or you terminate our employment this moment."

 

    Baejling looked sick. Mary Krammes, white to her lips, said something to him in her own language. He nodded heavily, wiped the handkerchief over his head again. Lifting his previously untouched wineglass, he downed the drink at a gulp.

 

    Raoul glanced out of the comer of his eye at the Little One. The Adonian's eyelashes flickered. He smiled serenely. "Well, what will it be, Dolf, dear?"

 

    Baejling's hands clenched into fists. "Do it," he said harshly.

 

    "Is ... is there anything you need ... from us?" Mary Krammes asked faintly.

 

    "No, Mary, darling, thank you," Raoul said. "We have everything we need. However, I assume that you two will be in attendance?"

 

    "Yes. Yes, of course."

 

    "Good. And now, I do believe that we should be proceeding to the hotel. This beastly smell is giving me a pounding headache. And headaches cause wrinkles. As does stress. You should really do something about that, Dolf. Those frown lines around your mouth--most unattractive. I could give you some cream I found on Avedai Arden. Oil of cucumber. Rub it in three times daily .... "

 

    Raoul took hold of Baejling's arm, sauntered off, talking of his favorite subject next to clothes--cosmetics. The Little One shambled after, small legs forced to take two steps to the humans' one. His shoulders, beneath the raincoat, heaved up and down.

 

    Mary Krammes, hurrying along fearfully behind, wondered if the strange little creature was laughing.

 

    The Embassy Ball was a glittering affair, held in the Grand Ballroom of the Presidential Palace. Men and women, dressed in their very finest, most elegant clothes, drank champagne and ate small, fancifully decorated and bland tidbits, which were being circulated throughout the ballroom by tall, fancifully dressed waiters. Since all present knew that the waiters were spies for the secret police, the conversation among the guests tended--like the food--to be elaborate and innocuous.

 

    Talk picked up considerably with the arrival of the Ambassador from Adonia. Raoul was in full regalia; he might have gone onstage as the Sun God or even a sun itself. He was dressed all in gold, from a rayed golden headdress, to golden doublet and knee breeches and hose, to golden slippers--low-heeled, since he might possibly be going into action. Every centimeter was crusted with golden bangles and/or sequins. His eyelids were painted with gold and he wore metallic gold lipstick, of which he was evidently worded about smudging, for he kept his lips always slightly apart, was careful never to bite them or pass his tongue over them.

 

    The Little One, trundling along at Raoul's side, wore the same raincoat and hat--a small and shabby satellite orbiting a gorgeous sun.

 

    The majordomo pounded his staff on the polished marble floor, made his sonorous announcement. "His Excellency, the Ambassador of Adonia."

 

    Raoul extended a shapely, gartered leg, bowed low, sweeping a large feathered fan across his body. Rising to what he assumed were admiring nmrmurs from the audience, he glanced about vaguely, accosted a passing footman, who indicated the reception line, where the President and his wife and other dignitaries waited to greet their arriving guests.

 

    Raoul floated that direction, spreading charming smiles and clouds of lilac perfume. He passed down the line, blithely ignoring the cold and withering stares of the ministers of Defense and Morality. He gave the men what passed for an Adonian handshake--dabbling his fingers lightly in the palm. With the women, he brought their hands near his lips but never bestowed a kiss on any of them, undoubtedly to protect his flawless lipstick.

 

    But, when introduced to Madame President, Raoul behaved quite differently. Awed by her beauty, he murmured a few words of polite and correct greeting, then actually deigned to press his golden-coated lips against the skin of her extended hand.

 

    Madame President found this all highly amusing. She made a polite response to Raoul, then, switching off her translator with a feigned, casual gesture, she said something to her husband having to do with "fairies and fags." All of which the Little One passed on to Raoul.

 

    Raoul, smiling coyly, advanced to pay his respects to the President. The Adonian ambassador was apparently not all that impressed with Mr. President, who was shriveled and shrunken, a withered husk covered by wrinkled skin. Raoul, gazing at the man, speculated seriously on vampirism in modem times.

 

    Madame President, meanwhile, was delightedly and laughingly exhibiting to her neighbors the gold lipstick impression left on her skin. She would, she claimed loudly, never wash this hand again. Her comments drew polite laughter from all those within heating distance, as well as from those who could not possibly have heard but considered it politic to laugh anyway.

 

    Raoul wended his way through the crowd. He discovered Baejling and Krammes huddled together in a distant comer of the gigantic ballroom, attempting to appear nonchalant and comfortable, with the result that both managed to look extremely suspicious.

 

    "Ah, here you are!" Raoul sang out loudly. "I've been searching for you everywhere. Don't kiss me, either of you. You'll muss me."

 

    "What the devil are you doing?" Baejling demanded in a furious undertone. "You're drawing everyone's attention to US--"

 

    "There's something I must tell you," Raoul whispered, adding loudly, with an admiring glance, "You're right about one thing, Dolf. Madame President is a remarkably beautiful woman." He gave a rapturous sigh. "I'm quite smitten. Is my lipstick smudged, Doll7."

 

    Baejling gave him a disgusted glance, started to turn away. Krammes tugged on her partner's sleeve. Several of the waiters were eyeing them closely.

 

    Raoul removed his mirror from a gold lain6 shoulder purse, studied himself critically. "I'm smudged! How beastly !"

 

    "Hot in this room, isn't it?" Baejling said loudly, adding in a low voice, "Look, we're calling this off. We've had word that the secret police are on to us. Why don't you--"

 

    "Ah, a bit late for that," said Raoul quietly. "The deed is done."

 

    Baejling darted a swift glance at the reception line, where Madame President--looking extremely fit and healthy-continued to receive guests.

 

    "What is this? Some kind of sick joke?"

 

    Raoul removed a small vial from his purse, then began dabbing the contents on his lips.

 

    "In about six hours," he said, speaking softly, under cover of music from a small orchestra, "your Madame President will start to feel extremely unwell. About an hour after that, she will be in excruciating pain and convulsions. In twentyfour hours, she will no longer be able to move her lower extremities. In forty-eight hours, she will be dead."

 

    The Little One pulled a handkerchief out of one of the raincoat's pockets, handed the cloth to Raoul.

 

    "Thank you, my friend," he said gravely, and began to wipe his lips.

 

    Baejling's jaw sagged. "How--"

 

    "The lipstick," Raoul said simply, taking extreme care to remove the last vestige. "The poison is in the lipstick. One of my favorite techniques. I wear a protective base coat underneath and I am quite careful, of course, never to ingest any myself. But it is always wise to take precautions. I am drinking the antidote for it now."

 

    He consumed the contents of the vial, then examined his lips critically. Certain that every trace of the golden, poisoned lipstick was gone, he returned the mirror to his purse.

 

    The Little One held open a plastic bag marked HAZARDOUS WASTE. Raoul deposited the handkerchief and the empty vial inside. The Little One snapped the bag shut, thrust it into a pocket. Baejling and Krammes watched the proceedings in dazed disbelief.

 

    Raoul reached into his purse, drew forth a second vial of the clear liquid. He held it out.

 

    "What's this?" Baejling eyed it suspiciously, refused to touch it.

 

    "The antidote," Raoul said with a sly smile. "Administered anytime in the next twenty-four hours, it will save Madame President's life. The choice is yours. She will not be in such extreme pain that she cannot negotiate. You might, perhaps, be able to strike a bargain with her. The antidote in exchange for an extended trip on her part to a distant moon. If the lady proves recalcitrant"--Raoul shrugged--"you let her die."

 

    He pressed the vial into Baejling's hand. The man's fingers closed over it nervelessly.

 

    Krammes clutched at him. "This gives us a chance! We don't have to be murderers--"

 

    "Unless she refuses. Or orders us shot anyway. The safest course to follow would be not to tell her. Let her die."

 

    "A difficult decision." Raoul was sympathetic.

 

    Baejling stared at the antidote, then lifted his haggard gaze to Raoul. "Damn you."

 

    Raoul smiled sweetly. "Our work is guaranteed or your money will be cheerfully refunded. And now, if you both will excuse us, we have a transport to catch."

 

    "You won't be able to leave. There are no transports for off-world--"

 

    "Ah, I have the distinct feeling that one will soon be making an unscheduled departure. Not to won'y. We can take care of ourselves. Farewell. It's been lovely. Give me a kiss good-bye, DolL"

 

    Shuddering, Baejling backed up a step.

 

    Laughing, Raoul turned on his golden heel, sauntered leisurely through the crowd. Taking his time, he paused to drink a glass of champagne. The Little One trotted doggedly along behind.

 

    So very civilized. Didn't want to do the dastardly deed yourselves, did you?" Raoul raised his glass in a toast to Krammes and Baejling. "Here's to what you kiss next, my dears."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 9

 

 

 

    Assess the advantages of taking advice, then structure your forces accordingly, to supplement extraordinary tactics. Forces are to be structured strategically, based on what is advantageous.

 

    sun Tzu, The Art of War

 

 

    "What the hell's keeping that damn Loti?" Xris demanded.

 

    Switching on the screen in the center of the table--a screen that provided a view of the large bar area of the Exile Cafe--he scanned it for some sign of the flamboyantly dressed Adonian.

 

    "Relax, will you, Xris? He'll make it. He said he wanted to say hello to a few old friends from back when he used to work here. You didn't say it was urgent, you know," Harry reminded him. "This is just a planning session, isn't it?"

 

    "Yeah, yeah." Xris was roaming restlessly around the room. "It's just ... I want to get on with it, that's all."

 

    The others present exchanged glances, raised eyebrows, asked silently what was up. Most specifically, all looked to Harry Luck, who had been with Xris and the Mag Force 7 team the longest.

 

    Harry shrugged his shoulders, made a face. He didn't have a clue, indicated silently to the rest, You know as much as I do.

 

    Each one of the members of Mag Force 7 had received a coded transmission to meet on this date in the Exile Cafe on Hell's Outpost--a desolate chunk of rock that could barely be dignified with the term "moon." Drifting on the fringes of the galaxy, Hell's Outpost was made unique by the Exile Caft, described politely as "a meeting place for professionals in search of employment." All file galaxy knew, however, that the Exile Caf6 did not cater to the sort of professionals likely to scan the vid classifieds.

 

    But even if one was not looking to hire or to be hired, the Exile Caf6 was an excellent meeting place. A large bar area located on the ground floor provided decent liquor and edible meals. The waiters and waitresses were attractive and would provide their own form of entertainment for a price. Weapons could be worn but not used--on penalty of immediate death. This was a place of business and those who came here were serious.

 

    Rooms in the Exile Caf6 were guaranteed private by the management, who boasted that not even the Royal Navy took such precautions to keep identities concealed and conversations secret. The user paid for such luxuries, of course, but the people who frequented the Exile Caf6 could generally afford it.

 

    And thus the members of Mag Force 7 who were present were wondering what they were doing here. Planning sessions were usually held in Xris's condo on Alpha Gamma. Mag Force 7 was a mercenary team, handpicked by Xris himself. They were licensed by the government, had a welldeserved reputation as being the best in the business. They had done jobs for the topmost of the top levels in government. Xris was on a first-name basis with the Lord Admiral, Sir John Dixter, and had once saved the life of the fleet adjutant, Mendaharin Tusca. It was rumored, but not known for certain, that Xris had once been secretly employed by Her Majesty the Queen.

 

    Mag Force 7 didn't need to take on shabby or dirty little jobs. And though they took care to keep a client's business secret--if that's what the client wanted--they had never before taken the extraordinary precaution of meeting at the Exile Caft.

 

    Xris took another turn around the room. Harry--whose specialty was piloting every craft that flew, floated, or ran on wheels--watched his boss in perplexity. The two had been together a long time--years, in fact. Other members in the original team had come and gone. Died on the job, some of them: Chico, killed by the Corasians on Shiloh's Planet; Britt dead in the tunnels of a Corasian slave labor mine. Lee had quit the team to get married. Harry was the only one left of the old bunch. He'd never seen Xris--usually as cool as the metal he was mostly made of--nervous, on edge.

 

    A lilting voice came floating through the commlink. "It is--" A pause, as if the person speaking had to think about it.

 

    "Raoul," said Harry, grinning.

 

    "Raoul," decided the voice. "And the Little One."

 

    Xris switched the screen from the bar area to the hallway outside the meeting room.

 

    Raoul, resplendent in an eye-piercing fluorescent green unitard, smiled blissfully and waved to the cam.

 

    Xris activated the controls, admitting the Loti, the raincoated Little One, and a heady wave of perfume.

 

    Raoul wafted inside the room. "Xris Cyborg," he said gravely, gliding over and giving Xris a light kiss on his left cheek. "I am extremely pleased to see you again. The Little One also extends his most gracious compliments." The raincoat shook itself, like a dog readjusting its fur. Xris, accustomed to the typical Adonian form of greeting, submitted to the Loti's kiss with a good grace, but only after he'd taken a close, scrutinizing look at Raoul's lips. Not that Xris feared Raoul would deliberately poison his boss, but the fact that he was wearing lethal lip gloss occasionally slipped the Loti's drug-fogged mind.

 

    "Peach-flavored, nothing more." Raoul flicked his tongue over his orange-tinged mouth.

 

    Xris grunted. "You're late."

 

    "I am? For what?" Raoul was astonished.

 

    "The meeting. I didn't bring you here to celebrate old home week," Xris added wryly.

 

    "Meeting ..." Raoul cast a vague glance around the room, suddenly noticed there were other people present. He gave them a charming smile, fluttered his fingers at them. "The team assembled. I am extremely pleasured to see you all again. The Litfie One, as well. We are sorry to have kept you waiting." He turned to Xris with a reproachful air. "We were not informed that our presences were required in a timely and immediate fashion."

 

    "The meeting was called for thirteen hundred hours--"

 

    "But you didn't tell us we had to be here by then," Raoul pointed out with an aggrieved air. Green eyelids--to match his unitard--fluttered. "I do not see how this can be my fault, Xris Cyborg."

 

    Xris opened his mouth, shut it on what would have been a caustic remark. The last thing he wanted to do now was hurt the Adonian's feelings. The thought of Raoul's face, streaked with tears and green eyeliner, was too much. Besides, what Raoul had said was true. The Loti operated on his own time system, which bore little or no relation to any other time system currently in use anywhere in the galaxy. Xris had never quite figured it out. When timing was critical to the operation, Raoul and the Little One were always where they were supposed to be at the precise second. But to casually mention to Raoul that he should be attending a meeting at 1300 hours ...

 

    Raoul's eyes were starting to shimmer. "In the days of my former employment in this location--due, if you will recall, to the untimely and most treacherous death of my late former employer, Snaga Ohme--I made a considerable number of acquaintances here at the Exile Caff, all of whom were quite pleased to see me again. But if you would have told me, Xris Cyborg, that you had called a meeting of the team--"

 

    "Very well, Raoul," Xris interrupted testily. "It's all my fault. I apologize for you being late."

 

    "And I forgive you," said Raoul graciously.

 

    He brushed his finger lightly across the cyborg's feshand-blood ann, then minced across the room to take a seat with the rest of the team, who were now grinning at each other.

 

    Xris waited with exemplary patience for Raoul to settle himself. When the Adonian had his legs crossed and his hair arranged on his shoulders and his lip gloss reapplied and when the Little One had plopped himself down on the floor and pushed the fedora back to reveal the bright, gleanting eyes, Xris called the meeting to order.

 

    "As you've probably all guessed by now ..." He paused a moment to take out a twist and light it, then had to wait further while Raoul put a scented handkerchief over his nose. "We have a job. It's going to be a tough one. Dangerous ... and something more."

 

    He took a drag on the twist, blew smoke. The LED lights winked on his arm, emitted a quick series of beeps. He glanced down, made a minor adjustment, looked up. "There could be some possible ramifications. Legal ones. I'm telling you all this up front, so that if any one of you wants to drop out, you can go with my blessing."

 

    "What are you getting at, Xris?" Harry asked. "Hell, we've all broken our share of laws before now."

 

    Xris nodded, held the twist in his hand between his thumb and forefinger. "Local laws. This job is going to require us to break into a top-level, secret, secure Royal Naval military facility."

 

    "Shit," Harry Luck said, almost reverently.

 

    The Little One, curled up at Raoul's feet, stirred and shivered beneath his raincoat. Raoul murmured something, patted the empath soothingly on the fedora. The Loti regarded Xris with a peculiarly intense and suddenly focused stare that was extremely disconcerting.

 

    Xris shot a glance at him and the Little One, frowned. "Whatever information that damn empath is draining off me, he better keep it under his hat."

 

    Raoul coughed delicately into the handkerchief.

 

    Xris, glaring, took a last drag on the twist, snubbed it out, and tossed it in a receptacle.

 

    "You'll be paid double," he went on, "but if anything goes wrong, we're going to have our tails caught in one hell of a tight crack. I'll take full responsibility. But I want you to know what you're in for. So"--he started to light another twist, caught Raoul's eye, and thrust it irritably back into the case--"that's it. If you want out, leave now. The less you know, the better."

 

    The others exchanged uneasy glances. It wasn't that they were worried about the job. They were more worried about their boss.

 

    "I forgot to mention one more thing," Xris went on before anyone could say a word, "this is a kill job. I'm going to be taking out a man--woman. I'll do the killing myself. It's sort of legal. There's been a warrant out for his arrest for years. But essentially I'll be taking the law into my own hands. If anything goes wrong, you could be charged with accessory to murder."

 

    "Is it permitted, Xris Cyborg," Raoul said quietly, "to ask the name of our client? Who is the one hiring us to kill this person?"

 

    Xris took the twist out, began to chew on it. "Me."

 

    "Ah!" Raoul breathed a deep sigh. Settling back in his chair, he clasped his hands, sparkling with rings, over his shapely legs. "And is it also permitted to ask what crime this man and woman have committed that you have marked them for death?"

 

    "Not a man and a woman," Xris said impatiently. "A woman."

 

    "You said a man and a woman, Xris Cyborg."

 

    "I made a mistake. A woman. As for what he did, he was responsible for the death of a friend of mine. And for a lot of other deaths. Maybe thousands. Because of him, the Corasians got their robot claws on some of the latest in firepower--weapons they used against our people on places like Shiloh's Planet."

 

    The Little One jerked suddenly as if in pain.

 

    "Shut up," said Xris softly, taking the twist from his mouth. "Just shut up."

 

    The Little One cringed and shrank back against Raoul's legs.

 

    "He was responsible for the deaths?" Raoul was puzzled. "Whom is it that we are discussing? He who?"

 

    "I meant she!" Xris snapped his teeth viciously down on what was left of the twist.

 

    "First he is a he, then a she, then a he again, and now back to a she. I beg your pardon, Xris Cyborg"--Raoul shook his head gently, so as not to muss his hair--"but I am extremely confused."

 

    "Look, Xris," Harry spoke slowly, reluctantly, "I'm not one to question your judgment. If you say this ... uh ... person's got to die, then that's good enough for me. But if there's a warrant out, why take the chance on being sent to the terminator? Why not just arrest ... this person?"

 

    "Because he's dead," Xris said. Raoul gave a faint moan, pressed his hands to his temples. "Legally he's dead. In reality, he's still alive, but I'd have a hell of a time proving it. Not that the case would ever come to trial," Xris continued bitterly. "They'd see to that-FISA. They've got their own dirty little secrets to hide."

 

    "My gawd!" Harry's jaw sagged. "The Royal Navy and the bureau?

 

    "You can leave," Xris said coldly. "There's the door. No one's keeping you."

 

    "Look, Xris. I'm sorry. I didn't mean-- It's just that--"

 

    "Xris Cyborg." Raoul stood up. Taking care to avoid stepping on his diminutive partner, the Loft walked over to Xris, laid a gentle hand on the cyborg's good ann. "You are not being sensible. Not being logical. And this is very much not like you, my friend. You are permitting this woman who is a dead man to run away with your emotions. You know that everyone in this room is most loyal to you, Xris Cyborg."

 

    The others in the room nodded earnestly, openly voiced their support.

 

    "Precisely." Raoul neatly cut them off. "But, as the saying goes, you must look at yourself from the rear in order to tell if your panty hose are crooked."

 

    "Does all this have a point?" Xris demanded.

 

    "My friend, if you came to yourself with this job and told yourself what you have told us... you must admit, Xris Cyborg, that you would tell yourself to go play in hyperspace. If you would reveal the truth to your friends--tell us, for example, the fact that this dead man/woman is the one responsible for the explosion which left you--"

 

    "All right!" Xris snapped sullenly. He glared at the Little One. "So much for trying to keep anything private around the mental sponge."

 

    "He means no harm. And I think that you will feel better if you will ease your soul of this--"

 

    "Your lipstick's smudged," Xris pointed out.

 

    Raoul paled. "Is it? Very badly?" His hand went to his mouth.

 

    "Smeared all over your face."

 

    Raoul was stricken. "If I might be excused--"

 

    "The bathroom's over there." Xris indicated a door.

 

    Grabbing his makeup kit, the Adonian departed.

 

    Xris could not look at the rest of the team. He walked over to the window, stared out moodily. "The crazy Loti's right. I came into this ass-backward. To make a long story short--"

 

    "You don't need to tell me any more, Xris," Harry interrupted. "I know all I need to know. Count me in. And you don't have to pay me double. The usual pay's good enough."

 

    "I'm in, Xris," said Jamil Khizr. "You can pay me whatever you consider I am worth."

 

    He was worth plenty, and he knew it. So did Xris. The handsome, black-skinned human had been a heavy weapons instructor in the Royal Marines. He had caught Xris's attention during a raid on Tarmigan, when Mag Force 7--acting under cover on request of the Lord of the Admiralty--had infiltrated the marine unit posted there in order to flush out a spy.

 

    Major Khizr had been of enormous help, showing a real talent for this type of work, talent that was being wasted in firing off practice rounds and droning classroom lectures. When Xris made him an offer, Jamil responded by resigning his commission that very day. Unmarried and professing to like it that way, Jamil was interested in one thing: money.

 

    Tycho spoke through his translator. "I'm cashing in my chips."

 

    Xris, after a moment, realized the alien meant that he should be included in the deal, not that he was about to get shot in the back. Translators normally reduced most alien languages' more colorful imagery to clich6s in order to better facilitate human understanding. Unfortunately, either Tycho's translator had a glitch in it somewhere or the alien's imagery was more colorful than usual, for the results were often interestingly garbled.

 

    The wiry Tycho was of a race that was so exceptionally thin that most humans mistook his people for insectoids, an impression that was enhanced by the allen's ability to alter at will the color of his skin--anything from porcelain white to ebony black to brown to forest green. His people were thus known, unofficially, as "chameleons." Such an ability was an advantage in his line of work. Tycho was a highly trained assassin, who came recommended by former Warlord Bear Olefsky.

 

    An expert shot--Xris had never seen a better--Tycho had once taken out the infamous Bergermeister of Demselhaus, the capital city of the Olefsky Hegemony, from a distance of six thousand meters with a modified needle rifle. Being double-jointed, Tycho was also capable of climbing up, into. over, or underneath almost any obstacle. He was also a financial expert and handled the monetary affairs of Mag Force 7.

 

    The man seated to Tycho's left stood and bowed. "I, too, would be honored to be included, Xris. To catch the bastard who injured you would be most pleasing in the eyes of the Master of the Universe."

 

    Dr. Bill Quong was the newest member of the team, and one of the most remarkable. He was an expert at fixing or altering any type of machine currently in use anywhere on any planet in any galaxy. In addition, he could also fix most "broken" living organisms, human or alien. He held advanced degrees in mechanical and hydraulic engineering, and was a doctor of medicine. He'd had little luck holding a job, however. Quong--or Doc, as he was known--had an unfortunate tendency to treat machines like people and people like machines. Xris hadn't hired the doctor for his bedside manner, however. One of Quong's major responsibilities was keeping the cyborg's mechanical half in good working order.

 

    Xris looked around at his team, started to say something, couldn't. He shook his head, shut his mouth.

 

    Feeling a tug on the hem of his pants leg, he looked down.

 

    The Little One was looking up.

 

    "You're in, too?" Xris said, smiling.

 

    The fedora nodded violently. The Little One raised a small, clenched fist.

 

    "Thanks," Xris said quietly. "Thanks all of you." He drew a deep breath, motioned them to gather around a table. Switching on a hologram, he said, "Here's the plan--"

 

    The bathroom door opened. A ruffled and indignant Raoul emerged.

 

    "My lipstick was not either smeared!"

 

 

 

CHAPTER 10

 

 

 

    She's a phony. But she's a real phony!

 

    Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffanys

 

 

    I'M ust have been a trick of the light," Xris told Raoul soothingly.

 

    "Ah, certainly."

 

    Happy once again--a visit to a mirror always improved Raoul's spirits---the Adonian started to head for a sofa.

 

    "I was just about to explain the operation." Xris intercepted Raoul, indicated the holographic image. The other teton members--grinning hugely--gathered around.

 

    Raoul blinked. "But I was going to do my nails."

 

    "You and the Little One have a critical role to play," Xris said patiently. "I'd appreciate it if you'd join us." "You could explain it to me later."

 

    "We only have the room for six hours, and once we leave here, we don't discuss the plan, even among ourselves."

 

    "I understand, my friend," Raoul said quietly, noting the steel edge in the cyborg's voice. "Perhaps I could do both at once."

 

    The other members of the team made room for Raoul. He pulled up a chair, brought his makeup kit, and proceeded to carefully paint opalescent polish on his fingernails while listening to Xris. The Little One curled up on the floor, head pillowed on Raoul's purse, and went to sleep.

 

    The empath never participated in planning sessions, never looked at a hologram or a map, never took any sort of instmction from anyone except Raoul. Early on, when the two first joined the team, Xris had harbored misgivings about this arrangement; he was never quite certain whether or not

 

    Raoul was absorbing anything said to him or was off in some Loti drag-induced dream world of his own. Yet the two always managed to come through when needed.

 

    Xris glanced at Raoul, who was taking care to spread the polish evenly on each nail, his glistening jet-black hair falling over his shoulders and completely obscuring one comer of the holographic model of the space station.

 

    The word reliable came into Xris's mind and he almost coughed. He supposed a person could get himself a nice quiet sanitarium room with a view and a caretaker to go with it for referring to a Loti Adonian as reliable. Yet, in all these years, during which the two had worked on some very dangerous and delicate assignments, Raoul and his small, mysterious cohort had never let Xris down. He'd have to remember to ask how their job on Modena had gone. It was a mark of his confidence that he'd taken it for granted it had "progressed in a manner most satisfactory," as Raoul would say.

 

    Raoul suddenly looked up from his work. His eyes met Xris's and their gaze was steady, intense, not the dreamy, unfocused gaze of the Loti. Raoul smiled, a secret, knowing smile for just the two of them. And he did know he knew the truth, knew everything about Dalin Rowan/Darlene Mohini. The Little One, who was also a telepath as well as an empath ("It comes with age among his people," Raoul had once explained), had peered out from under the brim of the fedora and seen right inside Xris. Hell, the Little One probably knew more about what Xris was thinking and feeling than Xris did himself. And in some strange and inexplicable manner the Little One had transferred his knowledge to Raoul.

 

    Was Raoul for real? Xris wondered, not for the first time, as he returned Raoul's smile with a reluctant, grudging half smile of his own. The lipstick, the clothes, the nail polish; the foppish behavior, the affected mannerisms. Certainly they were typically Adonian. So very typically Adonian that it was almost too typically Adonian. It was too real ... surreal. And the drags. Was Raoul a true Loti? Or was that, too, some sort of charade? In emergencies, he could react with split-second timing, something no true Loti could accomplish. He was inventive, creative, a genius with chemicals--traits the pleasure-seeking, indolent Loti did not possess. Yet the unfocused eyes, the dilated pupils, the blissful, unperturbed, most assuredly drag-induced euphoria were all typical--again, to the point of being atypical.

 

    But if his was an act--why? What was the purpose?

 

    Xris could almost suppose that Raoul, behind those painted, drag-drenched eyes, was laughing at them all ....

 

    "Yes, Xris Cyborg?" Raoul's eyelids fluttered lazily. "What is wrong? Not the mascara!"

 

    "Your hair's blocking part of the space station," Xris said, pointing.

 

    "I beg your pardon." Raoul flipped his hair over his shoulder and, breathing a sigh of relief to know that his mascara wasn't smudged, continued with his nails.

 

    Xris shoved aside a vial of nail polish remover that was sitting in a docking bay, and began. "What you are looking at is a holographic image of RFComSec. In case you can't translate the acronym, RFComSec stands for Royal Fleet Communications Security Establishment." Harry gave a low whistle.

 

    "Yeah, I know," Xris said. "For obvious reasons, it wouldn't be a good idea for any of you to know how I managed to obtain this layout. So don't even bother. Or," he added for Raoul's benefit, "if you know, keep your mouth shut."

 

    Raoul glanced up, smiled, returned to more important work.

 

    Xris continued. "Inside this space station is where the Royal Navy formulates the codes and ciphers that keep their secrets secret. It's also where they work at decoding other people's secrets. Security is as tight as Raoul's buns."

 

    The Adonian nodded his head to indicate he appreciated the compliment.

 

    "The space station sits squarely in the middle of nowhere. It's near one of the Lanes, but most hyperspace traffic zips right past, never realizing the station's there. No inhabited star systems within a couple of hundred light-years. RFComSec is heavily shielded and completely self-sufficient, except for one small detail, which I'll go into later. This large complex in the center here"--he indicated the hub of what looked like a gigantic wheel--"is the headquarters, the work area. These spokes radiating out from it provide housing, shops, gym and recreation areas, that sort of thing. Our man--"

 

    Raoul lifted his head.

 

    "Woman," Xris corrected himself grimly, "lives and works on the station, rarely leaves. According to the files, she's only left twice in the seven years since he ... she's been assigned to it. Those trips were duty-related."

 

    "Perhaps," Raoul suggested mildly, studying his nails with a critical air, "if we called her by name, this would alleviate the confusion in your mind, Xris Cyborg."

 

    "Which name? She's got two."

 

    Raoul shifted his gaze and again the eyes were disconcertingly focused. "The name you attach to her in your thoughts. The name of the person she was to you. For that is the person who must die."

 

    Xris said nothing for long moments, just chewed on the twist. Finally he said, "Rowan. We call her Rowan. That's who she was and, as far as I'm concerned, who she is."

 

    Raoul nodded complacently, repeated "Rowan" to himself several times, spread his fingers, and waved his hands in the air to dry the nail polish.

 

    Xris again indicated the holograph. "Best-case scenario would be to catch Rowan alone in her apartment, which is located somewhere in this block. But that's out, for several reasons. Getting onto the space station itself is going to be damn difficult. Once we get there, we're going to have a limited amount of time, so we'll have to move fast. One thing the military doesn't give out is the addresses of its people. We could spend hours wandering around the station searching for her housing unit, only to find out when we get there that she's not at home.

 

    "But she works in a place called FCWing. Once we're inside, we tap into the computer, ask it where to find FCWing, and let the computer lead us right to him. Her."  Raoul rolled his eyes, gave a delicate sigh.

 

    Xris pretended he didn't hear. "If Rowan's in an office by herself no problem. I'll need five minutes alone--"

 

    "Five minutes! To take out a mark?" Harry. was a bit thick-headed.

 

    Xris stared fixedly at the holograph. "I need time for a short conversation."

 

    Harry looked uncomfortable. "Sure, Xris. Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

 

    Xris turned, walked away from the table over to the trash receptacle located beneath a fully stocked bar. He spit the soggy wad of tobacco into the trash, then helped himself to a brandy--Mataska 7 Star. The seven-hundred-year-old variety. He poured himself a glass. Looking in the mirror, he could see the others exchange questioning glances, with the exception of Raoul, who calmly blew on his nails.

 

    Xris swallowed the brandy, returned to the hologram. "Any questions so far?"

 

    Raoul raised a hand. "What happens if this Rowan is not alone, my friend?"

 

    "Then I'll know for certain there's not a God," Xris returned quietly. 'Tll need one of your special concoctions." The cyborg indicated his weapons hand. "Something I can smear on a needle, inject into the flesh. Slow-acting, no antidote."

 

    Raoul was thoughtful, intrigued. "I have just the thing. It is known as--"

 

    "'Tll leave the details to you." Xris indicated a large digital clock placed in a prominent location on the wall. "We're running short on time and we've got more important details to cover."

 

    "Such as how we get onto the space station," Quong observed. "I take it blasting our way through is not an option."

 

    "We'd never make it within torpedo range. The base is well armed with strong defensive capabilities. It switches on its marker lights only when a ship is near, to aid in docking. And the only ships that ever dock are Royal Navy, plus a select few. A very select few. A fleet of Corasian mother ships would have a tough time taking that space station out."

 

    "But you have a plan," said Harry, grinning.

 

    "I have a plan." Xris bent near the hologram. "As I said, the base is mostly self-sufficient. Mostly. They have one little problem that requires outside intervention."

 

    Xris straightened, shook another twist out from the case, and lit it. "Fleas." He inhaled the noxious smoke.

 

    "Fleas!" Harry guffawed.

 

    "They don't consider it a laughing matter. It seems that about twenty years ago, some colonel's kid sneaked a stray dog on board the space station. The dog was infested with a particularly virulent type of flea. Not only is this flea harder than hell to kill, it carries a highly infectious, flulike disease. It's not fatal to healthy adults, but it puts them out of action for a considerable length of time. Came damn close to shutting down the entire RFComSec operation for about a month the first time the plague hit.

 

    "Since then, the Navy's tried every trick known to men and aliens to eradicate the pest. The best they can do is keep it under control. This requires a team of specially trained exterminators to come in once a month." "Every month?" Jamil asked, skeptical. "Is this reliable?" "Every Standard Military month," Xris said, "for the last twenty years."

 

    "Twenty years! Why doesn't the Navy just do it themselves?"

 

    "The Royal Navy is not in the bug-killing business," Xris returned. "Besides, this extermination company invented the system that keeps the fleas dormant. No one's quite sure how it works and the exterminators won't tell. They hold patents on the entire system and they have an open-ended exclusive contract to take care of it.

 

    "Here's what we do know. The exterminators place robots that release the chemicals in minute doses all over the station to control the fleas on a continuous basis. If' the 'bots run across flea-breeding grounds, they actively seek out the fleas and their larvae and eradicate them using a chemical spray and microlasers. Every month the Olicien personnel bring the 'bots in to a central checkpoint for maintenance and chemical replenishment."

 

    "Nice profitable operation they've got going," Tycho observed through his translator. "Paid for by our tax credits. I'll bet they stick the Navy for a fortune!"

 

    "Quit worrying about your tax return. At any rate, this is one time the Navy's not going to get their money's worth. As I said, the exterminators visit once every SMT month. Every month they fly their own craft, which leaves from their own home world. They make the jump, arrive on the space station. The crew goes in--just like they've been going in once a month for twenty years."

 

    "Same old same old," Harry said softly. 'Tll bet no one even bothers to check their IDs."

 

    "Yeah, but is it the same crew all the time?" Jamil wondered. "If so, we've got problems."

 

    Xris shook his head. "No, they've got other contracts to handle. Plus the usual amount of employee attrition and turnover. We may have a tough time explaining why all of us are new to the job, but I'm sure that's something our knowledgeable Adonian salesman can handle." He looked at Raoul, who grimaced.

 

    "I do not enjoy playing salesmen, Xris Cyborg."

 

    Xris was sympathetic. "I know, but you're so good at it. And I think it's about time that Olicien Pest Control tries to sell the Navy some additional services. Their charming representative will keep the security systems officer on RFComSec engaged in bug-related small talk--"  Raoul shot Xris a reproachful glance.

 

    "--while the rest of us take care of business. At this point, we face a problem. The exterminators are supposed to remain in one secure area. The security officer keeps tabs on them by following their movements on his screen. Any deviation from the norm and we'll have the whole blasted Navy on us. And," Xris added, taking another drag on the twist, "it's highly probable that once I locate Rowan, I'm going to have to leave the area to get to her."

 

    "I am a good conversationalist," Raoul said gravely, "but I do not believe I am capable of distracting a person with airy chatter---even on a subject as fascinating as fleas-while his monitor is flashing alarms and urgently attempting to gain his attention."

 

    "I don't expect you to." Xris snubbed out the twist. "When the Little One picks up the first indication that this officer has spotted something wrong, you give him a quick fix. Nothing lethal--I don't want any innocent people killed. Just something to send him to la-la land while we finish the job."

 

    Raoul nodded complacently, admired his nails. "I see no problem in this, Xris Cyborg."

 

    "There is one little thing I better mention, Raoul," Xris said slowly.

 

    Not liking the cyborg's tone, Raoul looked up in alaml. "What is that, my friend?"

 

    "You have to wear ... coverails."

 

    Raoul's eyes widened. "Baggy coverails?" he whispered, aghast.

 

    "Bright yellow."

 

    Raoul shuddered.

 

    Xris was relentless. "With a large black beetle on the back."

 

    Raoul shut his eyes, unable to contemplate the horror. "I will take that double pay, after all."

 

    Xris looked around at the others. "That's the general plan. Now we'll cover the details. Any questions so far?"

 

    "What happens if we get there and this Rowan's taken the day off or is working the night shift?" Jamil asked.

 

    "She won't be," Xris said shortly. "I have her work schedule."

 

    "Damn!" Harry was admiring. "What'd you do, Xris, ask Lord Admiral Dixter to hand over the Navy's classified files?"

 

    "Something like that," Xris said easily. "Any more questions?"

 

    They discussed how they were going to hijack the craft, what they were going to use to subdue the exterminators before they could be stripped of clothes and equipment. The team tried to anticipate anything that could go wrong and formed a variety of contingency plans to deal with various scenarios.

 

    Xris brought the meeting to a close. "Our time's almost up. When we leave here, we don't mention any of this. Not a word. From this point on, we separate. You four split up. I'll keep the Loti and the empath with me. You'll find the date, time, and location of our meeting place in a coded file in your own individual computers. That will also give you the location of Olicien Pest Control. Raoul, you and the Little One will arrive early, ahead of the rest of the team, in order to conduct your research. You're going to have to learn a lot about fleas."

 

    Raoul gave a heart-wrenching sigh. "The sacrifices I make for my careen And the Little One"--he glanced at his slumbering friend--"will find this most distasteful. He has the strong aversion to insect life-forms that is so prevalent among his kind."

 

    "He'll get over it," Xris said, who had no idea what "kind" the Little One was and who knew better than to ask, having been through that once with Raoul and gaining nothing from it except a throbbing pain behind the eyes. "Wake him up. I've got some additional instructions for you both."

 

    The others filed out, pausing to ask final questions or obtain clarification on some minor details. The last man had gone before Raoul roused the Little One. The empath shook himself, straightened his raincoat, and stared up from beneath the brim of the fedora at Xris.

 

    The cyborg reached across to the control panel, shut and sealed the door. "Now here's the plan for Olicien "Xris began, then interrupted himself. "What the hell does he mean--staring at me like that?"

 

    "The Little One says you are unsettled in your mind, Xris Cyborg, and that is most unlike you. Not even when you were contemplating that foolhardy venture to launch a oneman rescue of your wife from the Corasian prison camt>---"

 

    Xris frowned, interrupted the flow. "If this is leading somewhere, get to it. We don't have much time and I still have to pack up the equipment."

 

    "Not even during that dark time were you this ... this ..." Raoul fluttered his hands, searching his fog-ridden mind for a word. "Deranged."

 

    "Deranged." Xris clamped his jaw down angrily on a twist. "He thinks I'm deranged."

 

    "Perhaps that is not the word I meant. Possibly you would prefer unhinged?"

 

    "I'd prefer you both out of sight and out of mind!" Xris glared at the Little One. "But I suppose that's impossible, since you're traveling with me. This is the last I want to hear of it, or you can both make the trip home locked up snugly in the storage compartment. Now here are your orders--"

 

    "We are telling you this for your good, Xris Cyborg." Raoul was defensive. "Usually your brain is like a laser beam--clear, focused, flashing in a straight line toward your goal. But now, my friend, you are a laser beam in a room full of reflectors. You bounce off one and are distracted by another. You are zapping all over the place." "Thanks for the analysis," Xris said. "Send me a bill." "The bill may be a large one, my friend." Raoul's eyes were extraordinarily clear, intense. Disconcerting. "And we--the others and myself---are the ones who will pay. You are too emotionally involved. This could lead you to commit rash and hasty acts. You are already making mistakes."

 

    "Clear out." Xris ground the words between his teeth and the twist. "Both of you. Now. I'll meet you at the spaceplane."

 

    He pointed at the door.

 

    "In just a moment." Raoul appeared to have taken root. The Little One entrenched himself behind the Loti's legs. "You must listen to us."

 

    Xris sighed. Unless he wanted to get physical--which Raoul would have probably enjoyed--there would be no budging the Adonian. The fastest way to get rid of him and the empath was to simply let them have their say. And, although he was fairly certain no one could plant any listening devices aboard his spaceplane without his knowing it, he was up against some of the best in the business--the bureau, the Royal Navy, and the Hung. Sure he was acting paranoid. It was unlikely any of these groups would have found out about him yet, but--as the saying went--just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not following you. Best to let Raoul unburden himself inside a secure room.

 

    "I could always shut down the circuits that control my hearing," Xris muttered to himself. But he didn't. He had a strange need to listen, like poking at an aching tooth to feel the pain. "Okay, but make it quick. Why am I ... unhinged?" "Number one. You did not ask John Dixter for those files on the space station, as you led Harry to believe. You obtained the files illegally, by raiding the Royal Navy's computers, using the access code John Dixter gave you the time we did some work for him. You betrayed a friendship and a trust and you are not pleased with yourself. Such an action bothers you deeply."

 

    "It does not. I had to do it. I'll explain later. Rowan's a security risk." Xris indicated the chronometer set into his wrist. "You've got five more minutes."

 

    "Number two. In your mind, you have already judged, tried, and convicted your former friend and partner. This Rowan must die. He--or she, as the case may be---deserves death. That is what you have decided and this decision is unalterable."

 

    Xris removed the twist. "Yes."

 

    "Then let me kill her," Raoul said softly.

 

    Xris shook his head. Dropping the twist, he ground it beneath the heel of his steel leg.

 

    "A mistake." Raoul sighed a delicate sigh. "You are not a killer, Xris Cyborg. Not a killer in cold blood, like myself. I have no conscience--thank the maker of pharmaceuticals-but you do. It would be far easier and far safer for the team if I were to be Rowan's executioner."

 

    Again Xris shook his head. "I need to have a little talk with Dalin Rowan."

 

    "Talk!" Raoul was impatient. "Recall the dictum of the late Warlord Derek Sagan. 'Do not talk---shoot!' It was a saying of which he was very fond and which kept him alive far longer than one might have considered possible under the circumstances. You put us all in jeopardy, my friend."

 

    "You can always walk, Loti. You and the sponge."

 

    The fedora--the hat was now all Xris could see of the Little One--quivered.

 

    Raoul's eyes began to shimmen "How can you say that? We are your friends, Xris Cyborg."

 

    A tear trickled down the rouged cheek.

 

    "Now, don't start crying," Xris said, exasperated. "You'll rain your makeup. Your nose will swell. You can't go out of here looking like that."

 

    "I don't care," Raoul returned with unexpected passion. He grasped hold of Xris's good arm. "Tell me you will at least consider what we have said."

 

    Startled by the Loti's unusual outhurst--Raoul was generally placidity personified--Xris gently removed the bejeweled hand.

 

    "I'll consider it," he promised. "Now I'm going to give you your orders. Do you think you're calm enough to handle them?"

 

    Raoul removed a lace-trimmed handkerchief from his purse, dabbed carefully at his eyes. "Yes, Xris Cyborg. I am once more in control of myself."

 

    Whatever that means. Aloud, Xris continued, "You'll be traveling to Olicien Pest Control corporate headquarters--"

 

    "Is this when I'm a salesman, wearing coverails?"

 

    "No. This is before you're a salesman. This is how you get to be a salesman. First, you have to find out all you can about the Olicien Pest Control Company and how they operate. You are the representative for a company who owns floating platforms--"

 

    "Where do they float?" Raoul asked in a muffled voice, blowing his nose.

 

    "In space," Xris said with elaborate patience. "Your company is having a pest problem and your platforms need servicing. The Olicien people will say, 'Certainly. Only too pleased.' They will then provide you with the location of the franchise which services space stations, tell you to contact them directly. This will be the franchise which services RFComSec. They have only one. You will ask for a tour of this franchise, mentioning that several other members of the corporation will be joining you."

 

    "Ah, I see!" Raoul smiled.

 

    Xris thought it just as well to make certaim "This Olicien Pest Control Company has franchises in every major city on Alinus Misk. Only one of them devotes itself to outer space work. You're going to find out which one and arrange for us to get inside. Once there, we do a quick, quiet takeover. hijack their vessel, and that's that. Understand?"

 

    Raoul fluttered the handkerchief. "Of course."

 

    "Use commercial transport. Anything else would look suspicious. I'll take you back with me to Alpha Gamma. You can leave from there. Maintain contact. You know the routine."

 

    "Very well, Xris Cyborg. The Olicien Company on Alinus Misk. The bug place sounds perfectly ghastly. But we will be there."

 

    "I know you will. And listen." Xris paused a moment, then said quietly, "I won't let the team down. I'll do what I have to do."

 

    Raoul shrugged, smiled his euphoric smile as though he hadn't a care in the universe. "Time will tell, won't it, Xris Cyborg?"

 

    Shepherding the Little One, who had relaxed considerably, the Loti headed for the door. Xris was quick to hit the controls, open it. "One last question." Raoul teetered on the threshold. Xris remained patient. A glitch in his system was the probable cause of the fingers on his metal hand clenching. "What?"

 

    "About those coverails--"

 

    "Yes. You have to wear them." Xris gave the Loti a push, shut the door.

 

    Left alone, the cyborg returned to the table to pack up the holographic equipment. He deleted the image of the space station, was about to shut down the power when, on impulse, he touched a control, brought up another holograph.

 

    A man. Dalin Rowan.

 

    Xris had taken Darlene Mohini's photograph, fed it into the computer, made a few changes, and found his friend. At that point, he'd begun to believe.

 

    "Why did you do it?" he asked the silent image. "Set us up for the kill? I just need to know why!"

 

    A red light above the clock began to flash. A female voice advised Xris politely that his time was up. Other clients were waiting for the room. The door slid open and would not shut again--management's way of saying it was time to leave.

 

    Xris killed the image, packed up his equipment, and left.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 11

 

 

 

    So if you know the place and time of battle, you can loin the fight from a thousand miles away.

 

    Sun Tzu, The Art of War

 

 

    "Sir, Knight Commander has received your message. He is on the comm."

 

    The officer nodded in silence, retired to his private quarters.

 

    "Knight Commander. The circulation of the descriptions of the Loti and the empath known as Raoul and the Little One has produced results. At twenty-two hundred yesterday, SMT, a member of our order observed the two of them in the Exile Caf6. The cyborg Xris was also present. The three left together in the cyborg's spaceplane." "Where is the Loti now?"

 

    "We are unable to ascertain, Knight Commander. Their plane made the jump to hyperspace."

 

    "If one of our knights had this Loti under observation, why didn't he capture him?"

 

    "They were inside the Exile Caf6 at the time, Knight Commander. No violence is permitted. The rules are very strict on that point and are rigidly enforced. Besides, the cyborg was with him and the cyborg is a formidable opponent."

 

    The Knight Commander appeared to consider this. "True. Well, there will be another time. God will deliver him into our hands."

 

    "Assuredly, sir. And this does provide us with conclusive proof that the Loti is part of the cyborg's mercenary team."

 

    "I had reached the same conclusion. I have received information that this team was involved in secret dealings with Her Majesty the Queen on the woman's pagan, Goddessworshiping planet of Ceres. The Loti, Raoul, and the empath known as the Little One traveled to the planet on commercial transport. I obtained records of their entry. I am transmitting these to you now. Since we lost him at the Exile Caf6, these might be useful in tracking him down."

 

    The officer waited in silence for the files. The Knight Conunander continued talking.

 

    "It is quite probable that the Loft has a number of passports registered to him under various aliases. This time, as you see, he used his real name--if Raoul is his real name-and listed his planet of origin as Adonia. The Little One probably uses the same passport every time, since he has been granted 'mixed breed' status. Planet of origin is listed as 'unknown.'"

 

    "My guess is that these two were involved in the inexplicable illness and subsequent sudden disappearance of the wife of the President of Modena. Eyewitness accounts put the two at the reception during which Madame President fell ill. The two left before we could send a squad to capture the Loti, and at that point we lost them."