The Alien Trace [Cord 01] (32 page)

    

    

    The
Maida
was a "great ship," never meant to enter any planet's atmosphere, unlike the freighter on which Julia had escaped. If it wasn't as sybaritic as the cruise ship in the stim-center dream, it was quite adequate for Cord's purpose. His only interest was in following Julia.

    "We aren't scheduled for E'aij," the captain said, "and I've already deviated to come to Mehira. That was necessary, once the murder was discovered. But I can't justify rerouting to E'aij. We're bound for Kikal. From there you can get a ship headed out to E'aij."

    "You don't feel any obligation to track down your man's killer?"

    The captain shook her head, making her iridescent green hair swing.

    "I've narrowed the field down to four: two former crew members, your missionary, and Lion Pars, the one who killed himself. I don't have the means at my disposal to do more. It's up to Ten Suns Enterprises now."

    Cord smiled, a mere twist of the lips.

    Let Ten Suns find Julia if it could. The company would have to act fast to get to her before he did.

    

    

    He whipped the ray wand back and forth across the other side of the room. The smell and sizzle of vaporized plastic filled the air. The surgical bed collapsed, its support severed. Cord slithered into the room, flat on his belly. The suite might be a wreck, but his quarry was still alive. There had been no psychic death scream. The alien presence remained, utterly inhuman, without any hint of fear or panic.

    Cord worked his way forward, clammy with sweat. Where was she hiding?

    The flurry of explosive darts startled him when it came, because they were not aimed at him. He registered the
pop-pop-pop
! as they were fired, and then the lights went out, the luminescent panels blasted.

    Cord snarled and swept the ray wand almost in a half circle, low enough to catch the other even if she were pressed to the floor as he was.

    The stench of molten metal was overpowering. Fire alarms began to keen, drowning out all other sound. Thick yellow foam gushed from the ceiling as the suite's own protective system went into effect. As it covered him, Cord thought of pus.

    Deafened and blinded by the froth, Cord only sensed the scramble of movement. Something leaped past him into the corridor. He twisted frantically and fired, but the ray caught only the wall, leaving a deep fissure.

    He struggled to his feet, but it was too late. There were people in the passage now, alerted by the fire alarm. In the jumble of different minds and species, all of them radiating anxiety and surprise, Cord could not feel the one he wanted. Its touch was masked by all the rest.

    Dripping foam, he leaped into the corridor-and bowled over a frightened technician. He jumped over the man and searched the passageway for his quarry. He saw no one that looked like Julia-if that's what the killer still looked like now. He couldn't be sure if she'd changed her face or body yet. Nor did he understand why she would have to, if she was a shape shifter. What other reason could have brought her to Brunan, noted chiefly for its body sculptors? There had been some talk of an archaeological discovery of traces of an Imperial installation, but so far no find to attract tourists. Not that Julia was a tourist. If she was… but what Julia was remained a mystery. Uncertainly, he stood in the corridor, as various workers milled about in similar confusion. A stern-visaged woman with "Xavier Clinic" embroidered on the breast of her smock approached him. She was followed by two uniformed guards. Her emanations were louder than the tumult around them: great anger.

    Cord put away his wand. "I can pay for the damage," Cord said before she spoke. "In any form of exchange you prefer. Plus much more for the, ah, mental anguish, perhaps."

    Her frown smoothed out as she evaluated the offer. "In that case, if you will come to my office, we'll discuss compensation." She gestured to the guards, who now flanked him and then turned and called to a technician scurrying by: "Maeve, there's no cause to evacuate the entire building. Things are under control. Get our patients back to their rooms. This way, please," she added to Cord.

    He fought down his own vexation. If he did not observe the custom by buying off the clinic, he would lose still more time in Brunan's courts. He had been so close to trapping her! How had his fire missed her? Cord scarcely heard the clinic's director extolling the virtues of the destroyed equipment. In spirit he was already tracking his enemy. He assumed she would be on her way to the spaceport by now. As soon as he could, he would follow.

    No matter what planets in the galaxy Julia fled to, he would follow. He would catch up to her and kill her, no matter how much it cost nor how long it took. Even if it took from this life into the next…

    

    

    H. M. MAJOR guards his privacy jealously. However, he is said to sport a bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache and to speak with a faint accent evocative of British colonies and whiskey-and-soda. His favorite sports are archery and fencing, which he feels has been spoiled by the use of blunted foils. He speaks several languages, but only when forced to. He lives alone except for a temple-trained Siamese guardcat. And where he lives is not really known, but it is probably not in the States.

    (
H. M. Major
is the writing team of Sharon Jarvis and Kathleen Buckley
.)