Part 11 (1/2)

It was later that evening when she made her way to a communications chamber. It boasted no advanced equipment, no glimmering electronics. There were only the appropriate decorations, dim lighting, and on the single slab before her, a lesser Quasi-Dead. By speaking to it, a Necromonger could speak through it, to another of its kind residing- elsewhere.

The receiving Quasi, to whom her words were relayed, was lying on a similar slab in a very dissimilar place-on board Vaako's frigate. For contact to be made it was only necessary for the Quasi whose abilities she was utilizing to ”think” at its counterpart deep in s.p.a.ce. Sharing similar minds, they shared a similar mental place-and time frame.

Wasting little time on pleasantries that did not extend beyond constructive flattery, it did not take her long to repeat the entire tale that had been told to her by the obliging Elemental. As she spoke, she could see the lips of the pale gray creature sprawled on the slab before her moving in responsive repet.i.tion.

”. . . a downfall,” she eventually finished, ”that would result in the soldier's untimely death.”

A response was forthcoming almost immediately. This time, when the mouth of the Quasi moved, she could hear the voice of her unimaginably distant companion.

”'Furya'?” Even across the pa.r.s.ecs, and even though the words were being mouthed not by Vaako but by the communicator Quasi in front of her, she could make out the bemus.e.m.e.nt in her companion's voice. ”I recall little mention of it. No reason to. A ruin of a world, with no remaining sentient life to speak of.”

”For good reason,” she told him through her Quasi. ”The young soldier who partic.i.p.ated in the attack that devastated Furya killed all the young males he could find, even personally strangling some with their birth-cords. An 'artful' fatal stroke, wouldn't you say?” In the absence of an immediate reply she could not resist adding, ”Who do we know who favors the selected application of aesthetics to ma.s.s killing?”

The Quasi's lips moved hypnotically. ”So this 'soldier,'” Vaako was saying to her from the depths of his distant s.h.i.+p, ”the one who tried to pre-empt the prediction, would later become-”

”That's why he worries,” she put in helpfully. why he worries,” she put in helpfully.

”Our lord marshal,” Vaako continued. ”And that would make the man-child-”

”. . . whom he worries he overlooked killing, that child in the crib of whom this supposed seer spoke . . .”

”Our Ridd.i.c.k,” Vaako concluded. ”Do you believe any of this? Do you believe in prophecy? It is not science.”

”I know,” she told him, ”but it doesn't matter what I believe. Or what you believe. It does not even matter if it is true prophecy or merely the ravings of an inspired lunatic.” She smiled. It was a delicious smile. ”What matters is that he he believes it.” believes it.”

Another pause followed. Despite the immense distances involved and the lesser Quasi-Dead's ability to relay only words, she thought she could see her companion thinking.

”What is to be done?” Vaako asked finally.

Good. He was letting her take the lead. Also the leading risks, but that was fine with her. Given her current line of thought, she was in far more danger at that moment than he was on his s.h.i.+p in deep s.p.a.ce.

”You do what your lord asks of you. Find and cleanse Ridd.i.c.k for him. In doing so, you prove your undying loyalty to him. Perhaps then, perhaps afterward . . .”

”He'll finally let down his guard,” the Quasi whispered, repeating Vaako's words verbatim.

She straightened above the slab. As she did so, the Quasi's head lolled slowly to one side, the connection broken. ”Until your return, my love,” she murmured to the otherwise empty chamber. Then she bent low and, with the most extreme and grisly delicacy imaginable, lightly brushed her mouth across the gray lips of the unable to respond Quasi-Dead.

Later that night, she happened to pa.s.s the Lord Marshal and his retinue. They were deep in conversation, no doubt on some topic involving the continued pursuit of a war of occupation that had proven more troublesome than expected. The surviving forces of the Helion military were proving awkward in their obduracy. That was not her concern.

What did concern her was that as he pa.s.sed by seemingly without noticing her and she automatically dipped her head in deference, a second visage did did turn to look in her direction. A wraithlike face of a sort possessed only by the most exalted and highly trained of her kind. The astral countenance regarded her coldly for a moment before vanis.h.i.+ng inside the Lord Marshal's skull like a ghost returning to its coffin. turn to look in her direction. A wraithlike face of a sort possessed only by the most exalted and highly trained of her kind. The astral countenance regarded her coldly for a moment before vanis.h.i.+ng inside the Lord Marshal's skull like a ghost returning to its coffin.

She did not s.h.i.+ver, but it was a chilling reminder of the Lord Marshal's vigilance and of the abilities that made him so powerful-and dangerous. He was not just one man.

He was one man-and something more.

On board the distant frigate, Vaako had terminated the connection at his own end, leaving the communicator Quasi to its chamber and to its rest. His thoughts were on the future. On its potential, that now as never before seemed as promising as it was confused. How fortunate he was to have a partner as devious and clever as she was beautiful and affectionate. No other commander could boast such a companion. Great things loomed on the horizon, he was sure, if only they chose the right route forward.

Lost in thought and much preoccupied by possibilities, he exited the chamber. As such, he did not notice the solitary figure that had stood concealed in shadows at its far end. Once the commander had departed, that figure stepped out of concealment and into the dim light. It eyed the rec.u.mbent, motionless figure of the Quasi for a long moment. Apparently reaching some silent, internal decision, it moved forward.

After a quick check to make certain there was no one to see him emerge, the Purifier walked out into the corridor and headed toward the front of the s.h.i.+p.

XIII.

It was a green planet; shrouded in thick white cloud, lush with vegetation, fecund with life. It circled its unremarkable but benign star as it had for eons, out of the way and unnoticed, its distinctive denizens living out their lives in contentment and indifference to the rest of the universe.

And then, the hand came down.

A monstrous, slick-skinned apparition, it descended without warning, plunging through s.p.a.ce, upper atmosphere, and clouds, to wreak a devastation that was as complete as it was merciless. Singly and in groups, young life-forms found themselves wrenched from their beds, their schools, their hiding places. Holding thousands at a time, the hand drew back, tiny children oozing from between its fingers. The latter moved, rubbing against each other, shaking off the small screaming shapes. Dropping them into the vastness of s.p.a.ce where they were swallowed up by the unrelenting cold and dark and emptiness.

The hand vanished, to be replaced by a powerful, advancing figure. It was a soldier, young and strong, perversely adorned with a helmet boasting three faces. But the single face within could not be seen.

A voice-not the soldier's-at once innocent and wise, young and mature, frightened and frightening, whispering of a near-forgotten moment. Whispering, wondering, uncertain.

”Are . . . you . . . familiar . . . to . . . me?”

The soldier said nothing. But an armored hand reached forward, fingers outstretched. . . .

Ridd.i.c.k shot up from where he had been sleeping. Senses fully alert, eyes wide, it took him only a second or two to thoroughly scan his surroundings. There was only rock and junk, the distant chatter of convicts and the rotten-egg stink of sulfur. That, and a memory that would not go away. Would not go away, he knew, until it had been understood.

Between culls and feeding, there wasn't much for a guard unlucky enough to be a.s.signed to Crematoria to do. Either because it was too difficult, too boring, or too dangerous for humans to perform, automatics necessarily performed most of the routine maintenance. Though portions of the complex looked worn and battered, everything worked. It had to. On other worlds, in other similar facilities, if something broke down, it could wait until it was fixed. Wait to fix something on Crematoria, and there was a good chance people would die. This mattered to the staff, especially when they were at risk.

Presently, two of the guards were absorbed in a game of chess while others lazed at their stations, monitoring those functions on which machines were not qualified to render an opinion. The slam boss was there as well, busy working with a pad. One of the players moved a bishop. Utilizing sh.e.l.ls designed to stop the biggest berserker of a convict in his tracks, the individual chess pieces maintained the size if not the exact shape of their ancient predecessors. The potentially explosive bishop gleamed as it was moved.

Toombs barely glanced in the direction of the game. Not that he disliked chess. He was an avid player, but with different pieces. One of those was the individual responsible for his trip to Crematoria. One by one, his crew filed in behind him.

Douruba greeted them effusively, his manner much more relaxed and open than previously. Toombs took it as a hopeful sign without being sucked in by it for a minute. He also noted that one of the guards had risen from his seat and was now moving in the direction of the office safe.

”Good news first?” the slam boss offered. He took the head mercenary's silence as an acknowledgment. ”Talked things over with my comrades here.” He indicated the other guards, none of whom bothered to look in the mercenaries' direction. ”Since it was such a tough run for you, we've agreed it'd only be fair to split some of the aftermarket expenses. We'll cut you in for seven-hundred fifty K.”

As he spoke, the guard who had moved to the safe had punched in the electronic combination and pulled back the door. Now he was taking out universal denomination money. No credit; real currency. Electronic credit transfers were all very well and good, but u.d. cash could not be monkeyed with, si-phoned off, or put in some other fool's name at the touch of a b.u.t.ton. Glancing around, Toombs noted the expressions on the faces of his surviving crew. Plainly, there was no need to put the offer to a vote.

They could be a little more circ.u.mspect about it, he thought. The sight of the money had transformed them from a bunch of hardened mercs into a pack of drooling puppies. Oh well-Douruba was right about one thing. It had had been a difficult pickup. He had to admit he was as anxious as any of them to bid farewell to the pit-drop paradise vacation world of Crematoria-and find someplace suitably civilized and decadent to spend his share of the payoff. been a difficult pickup. He had to admit he was as anxious as any of them to bid farewell to the pit-drop paradise vacation world of Crematoria-and find someplace suitably civilized and decadent to spend his share of the payoff.

There was apparently one more thing to deal with, however. He eyed the slam boss.

”What's the bad news? They closed the local wh.o.r.ehouse? I hear it was really hot.”

The slam boss smiled appreciatively at the joke. By way of reply, he tossed a flexible hardcopy printout to the waiting mercs. It showed deep s.p.a.ce. Squinting at it, Toombs and his colleagues saw nothing but star field.

”Look closer,” the slam boss advised them. ”Dead center.”

Toombs did so. ”Dark shape. Could be anything.” ”Isn't anything,” the slam boss a.s.sured him solemnly. ”Our last resupply s.h.i.+p finished unloading here just before you showed. Its monitors caught that as it was system outbound. Means it must be fairly close in.” Reaching out, he touched the dark shape. The image immediately enlarged within the printout, promptly resolving into the outline of a stars.h.i.+p of unusual configuration.

Curious, one of the guards ambled over to have a look, cracking nuts between his teeth as he peered over Toombs's shoulder.

Ignoring the other man's uncomfortable proximity, the mercenary shrugged diffidently. ”Huh. Never seen nuthin' like it.”

Douruba's tone was guardedly neutral. ”Almost looks like it could be a wars.h.i.+p. But that's stupid, isn't it? What would a wars.h.i.+p be doing in this system? What could it want here? There's nothing here but us.”