Hidden in Sight (10 page)

Then a fierce concussion drove pieces of plas and stone into every exposed bit of Rudy's flesh.

Silence. Rudy ordered the drill to stop, doing his best to wipe blood and dust from his eyes and the bricks. His heart pounded in his ears. When he'd cleared his view into the room, it took him an instant to process what he was seeing.

Cristoffen sat, untouched, his arms still up in mock surrender, a smile twisting his lips.

Zoltan Duda, or what remained of so promising a being, lay across the scorched table, wisps of smoke trailing upward from charred flesh and bone as the ventilation system responded to the need to freshen the air. The scorching ended in a perfect half circle in front of Cristoffen, a line of bubbled black he followed with one finger, careful to avoid soiling its tip.

Rudy stared. He'd heard rumors the Kraal elite were developing an anti-assassin shield to reflect weapons fire at close range. If true, such a device would be restricted to the highest family affiliates, its secret zealously guarded. No one stole that level of technology from the Kraal and lived to use it.

Which meant it had been given to this young Human of unremarkable past, a former station steward turned Esen Hunter.

“I'm grateful, Hom Duda.” Rudy stopped trying to free himself at the startling sound of Cristoffen's voice, feathered around the edges by adrenaline.
Or was it triumph?
“Yes. Most grateful. Here. A gift.” Cristoffen callously flipped the remains of the data cube to join Zoltan's ashes. He stood, then bowed to the corpse. “After all, thanks to you, I know my caution in dealing with you fools was justified. Thanks to you, I need only retrace your movements to learn where you met with the Monster. And, thanks to you, indeed, I'm sure that's all I'll need to find—Esen.”

He then strode from the room.

Rudy writhed in his tomb, digging his fingers into the plaster in a futile attempt to push his way out. Dust filled his mouth and stung his eyes, stuck to the blood on his face and neck. He gagged, then forced away his rage and fear, fighting for calm instead of freedom. He counted under his breath to three hundred, giving Cristoffen time to clear the building.

Then, Rudy ordered the drill to free him from the wall.
It was going to be a race.

At least he knew how to find the finish line.

5: Office Morning; Starship Afternoon

“OH, the easy part's done. The Tik-shi Matrimonial Knives are back in the warehouse vault, Fem Ki. However, the second authentication?” A pause. Meony-ro, dour at the best of times, looked positively funereal. Mind you, it was a fairly common look for the former Kraal turned office staffer/chauffeur, especially since a memorable interlude that saw his bosses kidnapped, tortured, then ambushed within the same vacation. I think he'd hoped to retire from the military a little more peacefully when he picked this Fringe colony.

He did liven up at parties—well-lubricated parties.
Meony-ro may have sensed my attention wandering, for he tapped the offending memo. “Do you have any remotely conceivable reason I can attach to the request?” he demanded. “Ramirez and company will not be happy.”

“Double his usual fee. As long as the authentication is made by three Hisnath Priests,” I decided, a spur-of-the-moment improvisation. Paul bit his lower lip. “I've a client insisting—a client with religious interests.”

“Hisnath?” Meony-ro's eyes widened. The imperceptible tracery of the tattoos removed years ago from the skin of his neck, jaw, and cheeks grew almost legible again as he paled. “Fem Ki! Be reasonable! There probably aren't two Hisnath who agree on the time of day. How do you expect Ramirez to find three?” I glowered, something my Lishcyn-self did rather well. The Kraal waved his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Double the fee for the impossible.”

“It's not as though there's a rush on it,” I assured him. “The
Vegas Lass
will be occupied with an urgent—courier job in the meantime. Hom Cameron did brief you?”

Hom Cameron seemed to be developing a cough, but Meony-ro didn't look away from me. He appeared relieved. In fact, he began to grin—an expression I found oddly alarming on the sober version of this Human. “The Largas' ship,
Vegas Lass
?” he repeated, as though to confirm something delightful. “Can't say I envy you traveling with Hom Wolla.”

Meony-ro went on as if unaware he'd dropped a conversational blast globe. “I'll let Ramirez know he has some time, Fem Ki.”

I wasn't letting him get away that easily. “Traveling with whom?” I demanded.

“Hom Wolla—a pleasant being, of course, but hardly the easiest to ...” The Kraal's voice trailed away as he went back to frowning at me.
Yet another employee who lacked any respect
, I thought fatalistically. “The
'Lass
is taking him home, right? Joel Largas gave me—I mean, gave Hom Wolla—his word: the next of his ships leaving Minas XII, no matter what.”

I felt my scales swelling in an automatic defensive reaction. The last thing we needed was a passenger; the last thing we had was choice in the matter, if Joel had promised. Cameron & Ki kept a credibly modest budget—like everyone else, we relied on local operators such as Largas Freight. Flashing too much wealth on Minas XII was like sending unwary tourists for a stroll along the beach—the predators would be on us just as quickly. We didn't dare run out and buy anything as ostentatious as a private starship. “Surely there's another ship—” I began weakly.
Who was this Wolla anyway?

It was the Kraal's turn to look alarmed. “None ready to lift. Fem Ki. Please. You can't leave Hom Wolla here. I can't share my quarters with him a day longer.” At my doubtlessly blank look, given the Kraal was notoriously private, he explained: “I only took him in as a favor to Aeryn Largas. She needed him to stay long enough to fix the tug pads. Well, he did—over a week ago. I can't get rid of him. He's—he's—ruining my furniture!”

From the sounds of air strangling in his throat, Paul should be rushed to the med techs. I refused to elevate his playacting with so much as a glance. “Fine, fine,” I grumbled. “Contact this Hom Wolla and have him meet us at the '
Lass.
Promptly and with his belongings.”

Meony-ro, as if his sole desire for the day was to find as many problems for me as possible, shook his head. “Wolla isn't where we can call him. He's down in the Dump.”

“The Dump,” I repeated numbly, then did look at my Human partner. Paul was attempting to look back with polite interest and nothing more. My upcurled lip was just as sincere. “You aren't surprised,” I accused.

“I am acquainted with the being,” Paul admitted. “It's become Hom Wolla's—habit—in the afternoon. Every afternoon.”

If there had been any other ship I could commandeer without question—or, for that matter, any other with a captain and crew willing to do what we asked without unreasonable questions—and for only a mildly exorbitant fee—I would have used it. But the '
Lass
, and her promised passenger were necessary.

If I was to reach my mountain as soon as possible.

I bowed, with a nonvocal snarl, to the fates. “Paul—”

“I'll get him,” he told me, suddenly and reassuringly all business, collecting Meony-ro from his desk with a nod. The Kraal was a comfort. He didn't know my true nature. He didn't need to—his loyalty was to Paul Cameron. I needn't worry that Paul would be unguarded in the Dump.

I should have remembered that Kraal loyalties were tattooed into their flesh for a reason.

I had our carrysacks moved into a cabin on the '
Lass
and joined them as soon as possible. Paul had covered our business lives with as many delays and confusions as he could imagine—a busy office being the best deterrent to curiosity in our employees. To avoid causing confusion of a highly suspicious nature, I decided to stay out of range of questions.

An ephemeral lack of patience had nothing to do with it,
I assured myself as I paced in very small, concentric circles.
Exercise was important to any form.
Well, there were some sessile forms where exercise was primarily a matter of constricting internal organs at the appropriate moments, but my Lishcyn-self could use a little more than that.

But after an hour of such pacing, I was faced with an unpleasant truth.

Paul and Wolla should have arrived by now.

Punching in the com, I asked, nonchalantly enough: “Any word from Hom Cameron or Meony-ro?”

“No, Fem Ki.” I knew the voice: Silv Largas—prone, as most newly minted captains, to forget he paid his crew for such menial tasks as answering the com. Then again, he was a being who tended to anxiety of his own.
He didn't need mine.

“Thank you.” I hit the com button again. I'd planned it to be a controlled movement, but my strong Lishcyn fingers crumbled the outer casing. I'd have to make sure I compensated Largas for the damage.

Inane thought.
It was better than any alternative, starting with the one that I'd let Paul run a potentially dangerous errand because of my impatience.

Ersh would have bitten a strip off me for such carelessness.

Had I thought it would feel more painful, I would have done the same to myself.

Otherwhere

 

 

WEATHER on Picco's Moon was a rare occurrence, unless one counted the daily fingering of valley rims by mineral-laden mist. There was the occasional breeze as cooling air sank down shadowed slopes. With almost no moisture outside the valleys, such breezes did little more than moan through cracks and crevices, a dirge taught to young Tumblers as the signal they were out too late for safety and must remain stationary until dawn relit the perils of the surface.

This Tumbler heard the sigh of night air through the rocks' wounds but didn't dare stop. The Elders no longer understood their world; there was no longer safety in stillness.

It tumbled a familiar path that soon became strange with shadow, each roll as slow as possible, each second a greater risk. It was brave, if such a term had meaning for the crystalline folk. It was determined to succeed, where others had not.

There had been a message received, a request invoking the mighty name of Ershia, the Once Immutable. There was no doubt they would comply; no questions need be asked.

There was no doubt the task was dangerous. This Tumbler, healthy and strong, was the fifth to be entrusted.

It stopped, having heard a sound other than the wail of the coming night.

There were trespassers on Ershia's Mountain. The Tumbler had seen for itself the machines of the flesh-burdened, done its best to notice what might help identify those ravaging the peak. They moved by shifting two pillarlike structures, but so did many who came and went through Picco's shipcity. Other body parts appeared to flap loosely, as if about to drop to the ground. Like many who were soft, they scampered about with unsettling speed and in erratic directions.

At the memory, the Tumbler chimed to itself, a single note of dismay. This was not the foolish trade in ritual leavings. These flesh-burdened used their machines to rip apart the living mountain, throwing what they stole into the maw of a starship somehow fastened to the cliffside. What rock they didn't choose to keep was carelessly dumped over the side, a growing talus of desecration.

The sound seemed closer. The Tumbler's instinct was to freeze in place, to meld into the strength and power of the rock on all sides. But rock could no longer save itself. Somehow, the Tumbler forced itself to lean forward and roll away, not knowing what lay ahead in the path . . .

But knowing death lay behind.

6: Dump Afternoon

“SO pay attention next time,” I muttered under my breath, wrestling the aircar back into its lane. I could see the driver of the other aircar making a very rude and improbable gesture at me through what remained of his forward windshield.

I wasn't fond of flying. Not like this, anyway, strapped into a machine inclined to overreact to the simplest commands. But I hadn't been in the mood to explain to anyone who might drive for me why I wanted to go to the Dump, nor why I had to go immediately.

There were enough lies floating around already.

Which had meant taking myself, at an admitted risk to the rest of the flying public.
A minor and mutual risk
, I assured myself. I'd worry about repairing the bottom front shielding of the '
Lass
' aircar later. Not that anyone would ask for an explanation; I'd acquired an unfortunate reputation with moving vehicles over the years.