Dragonback 01 Dragon and Thief (22 page)

"No," Jack said, letting his face fall a little.

The guard smiled sympathetically. "Sorry."

"Yeah," Jack said. "Thanks anyway."

He got back into the elevator and punched for his stateroom's
level. "And that's that," he said as the elevator started up. "Anyone
following my movements will figure I stashed the cylinder somewhere
down there."

"You were not there long enough to do that," Draycos pointed out.

"Of course not," Jack said, smiling tightly. "But don't forget,
they think Uncle Virgil is here, too. They'll figure I passed it off to
him."

"I see." The dragon gave an odd sound, like a heavy rain splashing
into a puddle. A chuckle? "There is at least one area where you humans
excel. You are by far more clever than the K'da."

Jack made a face. "Yeah. Big fat furry deal."

They had reached their floor before Draycos spoke again. "You need
not fear us, Jack," he said quietly as Jack stepped out of the
elevator. "By the very nature of our limitation the K'da can only be
friends, or companions, or servants. We can never be masters."

"Maybe," Jack said. "But our history's full of servants who
decided they wanted to be the masters for a change. Usually, things got
pretty unpleasant."

He shook his head. "But we didn't come here to discuss history.
Let's get some sleep, huh? Tomorrow's going to be another real busy
day."

The luxury corridor was deserted the next morning as Jack made his
way along it, his feet dragging through the thick carpet. Back in his
own area, most people had already been up and about. The idle rich must
like to sleep in.

"What will we do?" Draycos murmured.

Jack hunched his shoulders, glancing around at the hand-carved
designs along the corridor walls. He'd traded in the fancy clothes he'd
worn yesterday in favor of his usual jeans and leather jacket, and was
definitely regretting that decision. He felt out of place enough even
out here in the corridor. How much worse was he going to feel once he
was actually in the suite down there at the end?

Assuming, of course, he actually got inside. "We do it straight,"
he murmured back as he reached the door. "Just walk up and push the
buzzer."

He got to the door and reached for the buzzer. As he did so, there
was the sound of sliding doors behind him.

He turned. Standing in the corridor, outside the two doors he'd
just passed, were two large men. Both were dressed the same way as the
bodyguard from last night, and both were looking steadily at him.

Jack let his hand fall to his side. "Or not," he added.

"Can we help you?" one of the men said as they both walked toward
him.

"My name's Jack Morgan," Jack said, fighting against the sudden
urge to duck between them and run away as fast as he could. There was
an air of police or ex-police about both these men that was stirring
all the old reflexes. "I'd like to speak with your boss."

"May I ask your business?" the first man said as they reached him.
They were, he noted, somewhat bigger than they had first looked.

"I have something that belongs to him," Jack said. "I'd like to
arrange for its return."

The second man had pulled out a small scanner and was running it
down Jack's chest. "Really," the first man said, a slight frown
wrinkling his forehead. "What is it?"

Jack shook his head. "Sorry. Confidential."

"That's okay," the first man said, giving Jack what was probably
his best effort at a friendly smile. "He doesn't have any secrets from
us."

Jack lifted his eyebrows. "Really. A man in his position, and no
secrets at all from his bodyguards? That's amazing."

The smile vanished. "Look, kid—"

"He's clean," the second man announced, putting the scanner away
inside his jacket and tapping the comm clip on his collar. "Boyle?"

"Right here," a voice answered faintly from the clip. "What is it,
Harper?"

"We've got a kid out here named Jack Morgan who wants to see The
Man," Harper said. "Says he has something that belongs to him."

"Does he?"

"Not on him," Harper said. "You want to check with him?"

The other voice snorted. "What, over some con artist running a
scam?"

"I told you, he's just a kid," Harper said. "Twelve, thirteen,
maybe."

"So it's a junior scam," Boyle said. "I'm not going to disturb The
Man for this."

"I'm already disturbed, Boyle," a new, fainter voice came from the
comm clip. "Have them send him in."

"Yes, sir," Harper said, his voice suddenly more respectful. He
touched the comm clip again and gestured Jack toward the door. "You
heard him.
Go
on in."

"Thanks," Jack said, frowning as he turned back to the door. There
had been something familiar about that second comm clip voice . . ..

The door slid open as he stepped toward it. Taking a deep breath,
painfully aware of Harper and his friend blocking his escape route
behind him, he stepped inside.

He found himself in a room about half the size of the entire
Essenay
,
and every bit as luxurious as he'd guessed it would be. The carved-wood
walls were covered with paintings and embedded light-sculptures, the
furniture was heavy and expensive looking, and the carpet was thick
enough to hide large rodents in. Two archways led off to other parts of
the suite, one of them from the right-hand side of the room, the other
from the back.

Seated behind a computer at a desk to the left of the door,
scowling up at Jack, was a young man. A cup of something steaming sat
on the desk to his right, a neat row of data tubes to his left. His
clothes, Jack noted, were a couple of notches above the outfits the
guards out in the corridor were wearing. That probably made him a
secretary or assistant.

On the other side of the door sat another bodyguard type. Unlike
the men outside, this one had his jacket off, showing the shoulder
holster he was wearing under his left arm. He was pretending to read a
newssheet, but Jack could tell that was just an act. One suspicious
move on Jack's part, and that gun could be out of its holster in half a
heartbeat.

"You Morgan?" the secretary type demanded. His voice, Jack noted,
was the one that had first answered the guard outside.

"Yes," Jack said, turning to face him. "You must be Mr. Boyle."

"This had better be important, kid," Boyle growled. "And if you
try to swing some gribble on me, you're going to regret it. What's so
funny?"

"Sorry," Jack apologized, wiping away his smile. "It's just
amusing when one of you corporate types tries to use street slang."

Boyle scowled a little harder. "So what's this about?"

Jack shook his head. "Like I told your friends outside, I need to
talk directly to your boss."

"Not a chance," Boyle said. "You tell me. If
I
think it's
worth his time,
I'll
tell him about it."

Jack crossed his arms. "His merchandise," he said flatly. "His
ear. Or he doesn't get it back."

Boyle stood up, leaning his palms on the desktop and looking Jack
straight in the eye. "Last chance," he warned.

Jack hesitated. Maybe he
shouldn't
expect to get in this
easily. No one here knew him, after all. "I'll tell you this much," he
said. "It has to do with the number four-oh-seven-six-six-two. Tell him
that, and see if he wants to see me."

Boyle's lips pressed together in a thin line. "And what's that
supposed to mean?"

"He'll know," Jack assured him. "No one else needs to."

Boyle's gaze shifted over Jack's shoulder to the bodyguard.
"Vance? Toss him out."

"Just a moment," another voice came from the back archway. It was
the second voice Jack had heard over Harper's comm clip.

He turned. The man standing in the archway was fully dressed in a
casual but expensive suit. No sleeping in late for him, obviously. His
face was in shadow, but there was enough light coming from the room
behind him to show that his brown hair had streaks of white in it. An
old man, then, the sort who would have had a lifetime to build up a
business empire of his own. Exactly the sort of person Cornelius
Braxton might be trying to take down. "I'm here, Mr. Morgan," the old
man said. "You have one minute to make your point."

Jack took a deep breath. This was it. "Then I'll be brief," he
said. "I believe that Cornelius Braxton of Braxton Universis is making
a move against you. A scheme that involves the cylinder you think
you've got locked away in Box 125 in the purser's safe."

The man's head cocked slightly to the side. "That I 'think' I have
locked away?"

"Yes, sir," Jack said. "The one in there is a duplicate. I have
the original."

"That's ridiculous," Boyle insisted. "Carpenter checked it just
last night—"

"That will be all, Boyle," the old man said. His voice was calm
but cool, not giving anything away. Jack wished he could see the
expression on his face. "Are you telling me you took it, Mr. Morgan? In
and out of the purser's safe without being caught?"

"Well, I had some help," Jack admitted. "And I didn't want to do
it at all. Braxton blackmailed me into the job."

"How?"

"His men tried to frame me for theft," Jack said. "When that
didn't work, they upped the ante and framed me for murder. Look, the
point is that I've got the cylinder, and that I want to give it back."

"After going to all the trouble to steal it? Why?"

That whole conversation with Draycos flashed through Jack's mind:
warrior ethics, looking out for yourself, doing what was right simply
because it
was
right. It seemed way too complicated to go into
here in the middle of crust central.

Besides, Jack wasn't sure himself any more why he was doing this.
"Because whatever's going on, Braxton is up to something underhanded,"
he said, settling for the easiest of the possible answers. "I don't
think he should get away with it, that's all."

"An interesting story," the man said. Stirring, he stepped forward
out of the shadow of the archway, and Jack got his first clear look at
his face.

He was old, all right, maybe even fifty. His face had some lines
and a few wrinkles, a lot of them set around his sparkling blue eyes.
The white-streaked brown hair Jack had already noted was matched by a
neatly trimmed white-speckled brown beard.

And like the voice, the face seemed oddly familiar. Jack frowned,
trying to remember where he'd seen it before. The newssheets?
Television? The VideoNets?

"There's only one small problem with it," the old man continued,
still walking toward Jack.

Suddenly, like a crack of thunder in the back of Jack's head, it
clicked.

And as it did, his whole theory of what was going on here
shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Because, you see," the old man said, "I
am
Cornelius
Braxton."

For a moment Jack couldn't speak, his mouth hanging open in
stunned bewilderment. "Mr. Braxton," he managed at last. "But . . ."

"I see you do recognize me," Braxton said. "Now, do you wish to
continue your story? Or shall I have Vance throw you out?"

Jack shook his head, trying to get his brain to stop spinning.
What in the name of vacuum sealant was going
on
? "I'm sorry,
Mr. Braxton," he said. "But I'm very confused here. That phony theft,
the one I told you they first tried to frame me for? That was with a
Braxton Universis cargo on Vagran."

"My cargoes travel all over the Orion Arm," Braxton reminded him.
"You need more than that."

"And then they took me aboard a Braxton Universis ship," Jack
said. "The
Advocatus Diaboli
. The guy aboard—"

He stopped as something flickered on the man's face. "The
Advocatus
Diaboli'?
" Braxton repeated. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Jack said. "My companion saw it and took down the
name—"

"
Blast
it!" Boyle bit out. "Vance—cover them!"

Jack jumped, twisting to his right as he caught the sudden
movement out of the corner of his eye. The guard was on his feet, his
newssheet crumpled on the floor.

His gun pointed straight at Jack.

"Wait a second," Jack protested, his mouth suddenly dry. What had
he said? "Look, Mr. Braxton—"

"Shut up!" Boyle snapped. "Lieutenant! Get in here! Quick!"

"You stupid fool," another familiar voice snarled from the side
archway. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

Jack turned to look . . . and felt his breath catch in his throat.

It was Lieutenant Raven.

Jack stared at Raven, his head spinning. No—this couldn't be
happening.

"The
Advocatus Diaboli
, you say?" Braxton commented
quietly.

With an effort, Jack tore his eyes away from Raven and looked back
at Braxton. First Raven, and now Braxton, too. It was like one of those
awful times back with Uncle Virgil and his friends when someone pulled
a joke and everyone was in on it. Everyone, that is, except Jack. He
would think something was happening, something important or dangerous
or scary.

Then someone would laugh, and then everyone would laugh, and he'd
realize they were all laughing at him.

He took a good look at Braxton's face. If this was a joke, Braxton
wasn't in on it, either.

And no one in the room was laughing.

"Put your hands up, Mr. Braxton," Raven ordered, drawing his gun
as he strode toward them across the room. "Blast it all, Boyle. Of all
the flat-headed, idiotic—"

"But he knows," Boyle protested, jabbing a finger at Jack.

"He knows everything. The ship, Mr. Neverlin—"

"So he knows," Raven snapped, glaring at the secretary. "So you
sit here and pick his story apart and pretend he's blowing smoke."

"But—"

"You blew it, Boyle," Raven cut him off. "You panicked and you
blew it. Now we've got a real mess to clean up."