The Legacy of Lehr

by Katherine Kurtz

  Wing flinched as Reynal opened their victim’s jugular with a deft flick of one claw, and Wallis felt her stomach clench at Lutobo’s faint, strangled whimper of terror as his eyes opened wide and startled and he dimly sensed what was happening. The captain tried to struggle as his first blood sprayed all over the front of Wing’s uniform in crimson baptism, but he was no match for either of his captors, especially with strength and reflexes still sapped by Reynal’s shields. Lifting the bloodied claw-hand in horrible benediction, Reynal murmured something in a language Wallis did not recognize and was answered by Wing—who did not even blink as Lutobo’s blood continued to soak him.

  Wallis did not want to watch as Reynal’s clawhand pressed Wing’s head against that pulsing source to drink, but she could not look away—any more than she could look away as Reynal bent to sink his teeth into the other jugular—though she did close her eyes, especially when Lutobo began to moan and his limbs began to twitch feebly.

  Hours seemed to pass, though she knew, by counting her own heartbeat, that it had been only minutes. She opened her eyes again when she suddenly heard a faint choking sound and saw Wing and then Reynal drawing back from their victim. At first she thought that they had killed Lutobo outright, but then she saw his chest move—though, with blood continuing to stream steadily down both sides of his neck, she knew he could not last long. Wing coughed, pressing a bloody fist to his lips and doubling over briefly, then drew a deep breath and straightened on his knees to look at Reynal in awe, blood now smearing his face as well as his green Ranger coverall. Reynal, more fastidious in his supping, was only red around the mouth, though his golden eyes seemed to glow red as well as he glanced in Wallis’s direction.

  “Well done, tsortse,” he whispered to Wing, though he did not take his eyes from Wallis as he handed Wing one of the hyposprays. “Use this now, and try to hold the offering. I must set the stage for the others, before the culmination.”

  Wallis made herself breathe deeply, observing in numb fascination as Reynal rose and began upsetting furniture, slashing the upholstery and carpet with his clawed glove, and scattering more tufts of the loose blue Lehr cat fur around the room. She failed to notice whether Wing had dosed himself again as ordered, but soon he, too, was contributing to the chaos, dabbing the Lehr cat paw in a runnel of blood still seeping from the wounds on Lutobo’s neck and making terrible, bloody footprints in Lutobo’s vicinity.

  Wallis felt a curious detachment as she watched all of this—knowing that her fate was likely to be the same as Lutobo’s, dreading the moment when Reynal should finish his preparations and approach her. She wondered desperately where Mather was; whether Shannon had believed Reynal’s glib denial of Lutobo’s and her presence; whether she really was about to die.

  Then Reynal suddenly was standing over her again. In her panic, she could not recall his having moved; he simply was there, his terrible golden eyes holding her from any physical resistance.

  “Tell me, Doctor, does your great learning give you any comfort now?” he asked, gently lifting a loose strand of her hair and caressing its texture between his thumb and fingers. “Can all your scientific training and erudition save you from the glory that awaits you in these final moments?”

  Wallis fought to swallow, her throat suddenly gone dry, and tried to speak, but no words would come out. The dart drug still working in her body kept her balanced just on the edge of lethargic indifference, and the further abuse her system had taken from his shields ensured that no physical resistance was going to be possible. She hoped Reynal would at least tell her why she had to die this way. And what would it be like?

  “It will be an easy death, Doctor,” Reynal whispered, almost as if he had read her thoughts—though she was fairly certain he had not. “In ancient times, before the Earthers came to Il Nuadi, the Old Ones walked the ways of the gods. The Shining Ones, whom you stupidly call Lehr cats, were the divine messengers of those gods—lesser gods, themselves—and the priests of the Old Ones took blood sacrifice for them, that they might carry the people’s petitions heavenward.

  “But the Earthers brought disease and a destruction of the old ways,” he went on, his eyes hardening. “Their dying had only begun when the Earthers’ wars cut off Il Nuadi from further contamination, but that start was enough. Soon all the Old Ones were gone; and for centuries, the gods received no sacrifices.

  “But half a century ago, our wise men learned to emulate the ancient examples, Doctor. Joyously we revived the ancient sacrifices, that we might make atonement for what was done to the Old Ones and once more send the people’s petitions to Them. And when one of the Shining Ones is taken from Il Nuadi, or is killed, sacrifice must be made. The drug Reparanol was the key; for with it, we can assimilate the blood of the sacrifice even as the Old Ones did. Now, once again may the sacrifice experience that awesome, awe-full ecstasy of union with the gods, as he or she sinks into blessed oblivion.”

  He leaned closer to her, his hands resting on the chair arms to either side of her, and stared into her eyes. The stench of blood was on his breath.

  “It is a sweet pain, Doctor Hamilton. Do not resist it. Your life shall be sealed to the gods. Accept this and rejoice.”

  And she must accept. She could not pull away or struggle. As he drew her up into his embrace, murmuring words of alien ritual that she did not understand, she closed her eyes and felt his steel-tipped fingers tilt her head to one side, his other hand slipping behind her back to support her neck and head.

  Then she was aware of his lips brushing moistly over her throat, the hot shock of his tongue probing for the pulse point. She braced herself for his teeth but instead felt the subtler sting of one of his claws nicking the vein, just before his lips clamped down in a kiss of death.

  She had not expected it to be so painless. She was able to count a full minute by her heartbeat before she felt consciousness begin to wane from loss of blood. Soon she would pass out, never knowing her own ending.

  But further impressions of the experience were never to come. For just as empty despair began to overpower her, an explosion jarred the room, the sound filtering hollowly through her dazed senses, and Reynal was pulling away from her and leaping to his feet.

  As the door disappeared in a flash of hot air and smoke, Rangers and security men suddenly began pouring into the room, their needlers sparking. But the darts flashed harmlessly around Reynal, for he had reactivated his shielding device at the first sign of trouble. Even stun bolts had no effect. Charred bits of plastic and surgisteel rained around him like hail, and the stun pistol he drew immediately began to take its toll of the men pouring into the room.

  And Wing’s assistance was of an even more insidious sort. Pretending to be one of Reynal’s victims—which was not difficult, given his bloodstained appearance—he had thrown himself on the floor when the guards began bursting through the door. From this position of feigned unconsciousness, he fired his needler from underneath his body whenever an opportunity presented itself, thus incapacitating at least three guards or Rangers whom Reynal’s stunner had missed.

  When Mather burst in at the tail of the attack, his needler sparking while he seemed to be evading every stun shot that Reynal tried, Wing broke his cover. Raising up on one elbow, he fired point-blank as Mather started to push past him to reach Wallis. He got off at least two more shots before Mather could deal with him.

  But Mather was fast, despite his bulk. Seeing Wing’s movement out of the corner of his eye, he dropped to the floor, rolled, and returned fire in one smooth movement. Nor did the gyrations mar his aim. Even as Wing was trying to squeeze off a fourth shot, he took five of Mather’s darts in the chest in a close-grouped pattern that would have made any range master proud.

  But at least one of Wing’s darts had found its mark, too, and Mather could not ignore its effects for long. Cursing under his breath, he managed to roll onto his side and catch another glimpse of Wallis, sprawled limp and bloody in the chair where Reynal had left her.


  But the drug dragged at his limbs, and his needler slipped from increasingly numb fingers. He could not seem to keep his eyes open. He felt the velvet crush of unconsciousness pressing closer and closer as his eyelids closed, but he fought to maintain at least a shred of awareness.

  Across the room, as silence descended, Reynal began to laugh.

  CHAPTER 12

  The laughter saved Mather.

  The sound was something he could hold onto—an anchor on consciousness, a beacon to help keep the growing twilight at bay. He wondered why he was still conscious at all, for he knew he had taken at least two of Wing’s darts. In a supreme effort of will, he managed to open his eyes slightly and make a quick evaluation of what he could see without moving.

  The prospect was not encouraging. Of the six security guards and three Rangers he had sent in after the door was blown, he could see two of his own men sunk in drugged slumber with Wing’s darts in them and three more men twitching in after-reaction from Reynal’s stunner. The sudden silence, as Reynal stopped laughing, suggested that everyone else was similarly incapacitated.

  Nor was his own situation exactly encouraging. He had ended up on his right side, with his knees partially drawn against his chest in a fetal position and his right arm fully extended to the side, the useless needler still grasped loosely in his numb right hand. His left arm was curled close to his chest, one of Wing’s darts just visible beneath the hand cupped near his heart, and a cautious further inspection suggested at least a partial reason he was still awake. Another dart was stuck in his left shoulder at an angle that made him suspect it had hit the needler harness under his jacket. That, plus the low dose of the darts the Rangers carried, plus his sheer bulk, must be what had saved him.

  But he was not safe yet. As Reynal suddenly started to move, passing among the motionless bodies to disarm them, Mather closed his eyes, praying that Reynal had not noticed the movement—for he was as good as dead, if Reynal thought he was still conscious, and he might never get the chance to implement his plan.

  He heard Reynal coming closer, but with the anchor of vision gone, he started to drift again. He managed not to slip away entirely, but it took all his remaining concentration. And he did drift a little; suddenly he was aware that someone was standing over him.

  Mather continued to play dead. He knew who it had to be. Remembering what Reynal had done to Wallis, he had to fight an almost uncontrollable urge to roll violently away from that cold scrutiny, but he knew he dared not, no matter what else happened. He sensed Reynal bending closer—and then pain seemed to explode up his arm and race all through his body as the needler was plucked from his fingers.

  Not that the needler could have done any good against Reynal’s shields, anyway—for the shields were surely what Mather had just experienced, judging by what he had seen before he went down. It had not been as bad as taking a stun charge, for which he was grateful, but that was small comfort as he lay twitching, every nerve ending screaming. His limbs continued to twitch and jerk uncontrollably for several seconds after Reynal moved on toward the door.

  Nor was there any way Mather could warn whoever remained outside. His Rangers all were out of commission except Fredricks, still down in the hold with the cats; the ship’s security people would be all but useless against someone as ruthless as Reynal. For the next minute or two, as he listened to the whine of more stun bolts being discharged in the corridor outside, Mather could only concentrate on trying to make his abused nerveways reconnect properly again and trying to make his left hand work—for that was crucial, if he hoped to stop Reynal. When the sound of stun bolts finally ceased, his heart sank as he heard Reynal’s voice.

  “Come on in, Doctor, or I’ll have to shoot you, too! I have a patient who requires your attention.”

  “You’ve—killed them!” He heard Shannon gasp.

  “Only some of them, Doctor. Now come and see to Lieutenant Wing. Don’t make me touch you, or it will be very unpleasant. And if Wing dies, I can promise that you shall follow him.”

  Mather still could do nothing yet, though feeling was starting to come back into his arms and legs. Cautiously he watched Reynal march Shannon past him to where Wing lay, Reynal covering her with his stunner and further menacing her with his clawed glove. Wing was hardly breathing and must be close to comatose, with five darts in him. Tense and obviously frightened, Shannon dropped to her knees and scanned Wing briefly, then removed the darts from his chest and began charging a hypospray. With Reynal engrossed in watching what she did, Mather sensed that this might be his last chance to take positive action.

  His left hand was shielded from Reynal now, as would be anything Mather removed from his jacket—unless, of course, Reynal came back. Carefully Mather started to work. Every centimeter of gain hurt, but he finally managed to get the larger, wider-mouthed of the two plastic vials out of his jacket and into the shelter of his side and got the stopper out. But he had only begun to pull out the second vial when Reynal looked up from where he knelt by Wing and Shannon and glanced around the room again. As Reynal stood up, Mather palmed the small vial and closed his eyes to merest slits, praying that the man would not notice the larger vial nestled behind his cupped hand. (And why should he even think of Mather again, believing him to be incapacitated by Wing’s darts and his own touch?)

  But as Reynal’s gaze swept the room again, moistening bloodstained lips with a bloody tongue, Mather suddenly knew why Reynal might approach. The knowledge chilled him, but not half so much as when he realized that Reynal’s gaze had fixed itself elsewhere—on Wallis, still sprawled in the chair where he had dropped her. Her eyes were closed, and blood stained the right side of her neck and had run down that side of her clothing, but her breathing seemed steady. Reynal’s expression changed from speculation to purpose as he began walking slowly toward her, and Mather had all he could do not to launch himself at the man.

  He made himself think, instead. He had to have time! As far as he could tell, Wallis was not yet in any real danger from loss of blood—though there might be other complications that he could not anticipate. By any outward sign that Mather could perceive from where he lay, Reynal probably had not had time to do her any grave damage—though he apparently was preparing to resume where he had left off.

  Not only did Mather need time to finish preparing his weapon, but he needed a chance to get to his feet so he could deliver it. If Reynal stopped him before he could get up, Reynal would kill him and then kill Wallis, anyway. Nor could Mather take another charge from Reynal’s shields and expect to survive.

  Feverishly he searched his mind for some delaying action, some diversion that might give him—and Wallis—the time they needed. His eyes lit on Shannon, still laboring over the unconscious Wing and nervously trying not to look at Reynal.

  It was a very long shot, because he did not know Shannon well, but it was the only shot he had. He did not know whether he could pull it off, especially in his presently befogged condition, for only determination and his sheer bulk were enabling him to keep fighting the needler’s drug as long as he had.

  There was no way to know but to try. Closing his eyes briefly and betting everything on his sometimes unreliable psychic resources, he sought the state of altered consciousness from which he had empathized with the Lehr cat. To his relief, he felt himself shifting mental gears almost immediately and guessed that, in this instance, the needler’s drug probably was helping him achieve the results he sought, rather than hindering.

  Heartened, he reached out a tentative probe toward Shannon, aware that lack of physical contact was not going to help matters any, and tried to concentrate all his strength, all his heightened awareness, on a single act of willing Shannon to action. Reynal was within an easy arm’s reach of Wallis now. He had turned off his shields and was settling on the chair arm beside her, bending across her body toward her bloody neck. Frantic, Mather launched his remaining strength into one emphatic command. He could almost feel Reynal’s teeth s
inking into his own neck as he willed Shannon to leap up and scream.

  Suddenly he knew she had heard him—and even as he sensed her lungs filling with air, he was dumping the contents of his smaller vial into the larger one, swirling the mixture together in an opalescent haze. In that same instant, Shannon shrieked, “Noooo!” and sprang to her feet.

  Reynal gasped and threw himself back from Wallis’s chair, switching on his shields again—which was just what Mather wanted. Reynal started toward Shannon, murder in his eyes as he reached for her with the clawed glove, and in that instant Mather staggered to his feet to fling the contents of his larger vial directly at Reynal, splashing the milky liquid across his shields in a dazzling display of blue sparks, smoke, and an odor of wet seaweed.

  For just an instant the shields held, the outer perimeter alive with blue flame and acrid greenish smoke, and Mather was afraid it wasn’t going to work. He rummaged frantically in his pocket for the silver chain, ready to throw that, too—but then Reynal and the center of the room exploded in a sheet of white fire, and Mather was throwing himself at Wallis’s chair, overturning it and her to shield her with his body, clapping his palm to the wound in her neck. Shannon recoiled against a bulkhead with the concussion, collapsing to her knees in a heap as the flames raged. The explosion brought more ship’s crew bursting through the doorway, and they made valiant attempts to drag those nearest the door to safety.

  But Reynal himself was afire, screaming hideously as the flames roared around him and singed the acoustical baffles in the ceiling. Fire-fighting equipment was summoned, but it was too late for Reynal by the time it arrived. By then, all that remained of him was a charred, smoldering hulk, vaguely humanoid in shape.

  The stench of burnt flesh and hair hung heavy on the air, along with utter, disbelieving silence, until the ceiling ventilation system cut in and began to clear the smoke from the room. The sound released Mather, who raised his head and started to pick himself up from over Wallis’s limp form. As he did so, Shannon also staggered to her feet and limped painfully to his side, there to support herself wobbily against the overturned chair and gaze with horror at what remained of Lorcas Reynal.