"Abdiel does have a point," he conceded. " T'isn't like Sagan to send anyone to do his business, much less a female. The man has liquid oxygen in his veins instead of blood. What do we know about this agent of his?"
"She calls herself Penthesilea and purports to hold the rank of major. She's not, however, listed in any of our files of Sagan’s officers, spies, or hired assassins. Our sources on the base report she arrived in a spaceplane that had obviously been through recent combat. Haupt was dubious about her himself, but the Warlord gave orders—his own personal code—to render the woman all possible assistance."
"Odd. Very odd. Is she beautiful?"
"That was, of course, my first thought, although it would be extremely unlike Sagan to try to either bribe you or seduce you. His mind doesn't work that way. My source tells me that the woman is in her forties, human years, and while she has an adequate figure and quite lovely hair, her face is marred by a hideous scar."
"Gad!" Snaga Ohme grimaced. "I trust she has the civility to cover it up while she's here. But you reassure me, Bosk. She sounds just Sagan's type. Well, well. It will be interesting to see what she has to offer. When is she due?"
"An hour or so. Speaking of offers, will you really sell the bomb to her?"
"My dear Bosk"—Snaga Ohme poured himself a glass of champagne from a bottle chilling in a silver ice bucket; raising it, he admired the bubbles floating to the surface, then sipped at it delicately-"if I handle this right, I can sell it to everyone!"
The Lady Maigrey, beyond all doubt, is Sagan's representative .
"Indeed," Abdiel murmured. "And Snaga Ohme has no idea?"
None, my master. The mind-dead did not speak aloud; he had no need to. Abdiel heard every word quite clearly. He could also speak to his disciples mentally, and from great distances, and frequently did, when they were out performing some task for him. But, when they were alone, he did not. He always spoke aloud for no particular reason except that he occasionally enjoyed hearing the sound of a voice.
The mind-dead. The servants of the mind-seizers are known by that appellation among those (and there are few) who still remember the Order of Dark Lightning. The name is actually a misnomer. Those humans who served Abdiel were not mind-dead. They merely looked it. Mind-controlled would be more precisely the correct term.
The viral infection injected by the mind-seizer into a body of one of the Blood Royal allows the seizer empathetic closeness with the person and, if the seizer is quite strong-willed and his victim weak, the "bonding" grants the mind-seizer a certain amount of ascendancy. The benefits of empathetic connection between themselves had been enough for most members of the Order of Dark Lightning. But sharing thoughts and ideas with each other had not been enough for certain others, including their intelligent and cunning leader, who called himself Abdiel. He wanted power, wanted lesser beings to do his bidding, to obey his every command without question.
Abdiel wanted droids—living droids. Real androids had too many limitations, the most serious being the lack of imagination, the inability to adapt to new situations. The Blood Royal were not suited to his purpose; even the weakest maintained a certain amount of resistance to him. But ordinary mortals were eminently satisfactory. Unfortunately, injecting ordinary mortals with the virus had a rather serious side effect: death.
The mind-seizer worked diligently to overcome this drawback, altering the structure of the virus, watering it down, so to speak, so that it would operate effectively on ordinary nervous systems without mutating into the virulent cancer that killed within days. He achieved success, though how many paid the cost of his experimentation was unknown.
To his credit, Abdiel never took unwilling victims. He had no need. For some, to be alive is to be in hell. For some, life is fear, insecurity, sorrow, longing, frustration. And for these, Abdiel could make life a heaven.
Once connected with Abdiel, a person would never know fear, for fear is an instinct of self-preservation and the mind-dead have no such instinct. Abdiel controlled all aspects of his people's lives, waking and sleeping. He even ruled their dreams.
He could provide exquisite pleasure. He could also, of course, provide excruciating pain, but Abdiel refrained from mentioning that in his sales pitch to the unhappy beings who came to him. His disciples never knew fear, never knew hunger, never knew pain (unless they somehow managed to displease him), or frustration. He gave them everything, including the belief that they were free.
"When does the Lady Maigrey meet with the Adonian?"
Noon, my master.
"And what of Lord Sagan?"
His shuttle is reported to have left Defiant, destination and whereabouts unknown.
"But they are obvious. Where else would he come? But why— Mmmm. Is it possible? Could he and I have the same plan? Of course. It makes perfect sense. You say there is no possible way to break into the dwelling of the Adonian?"
I have given the matter careful consideration, my master. It is my judgment, based on my observations and thorough study, that it was easier storming the Glitter Palace the night of the revolution than it would be attacking the fortress of Snaga Ohme. An army could not do it and succeed.
"Lord Sagan could not do it, for example?"
If he could, my master, would he not have done so before now?
"Excellent point, Mikael. Yes, he and I have both devised the same strategy. Both our hands reaching for the same pawn." Abdiel rubbed his hands, dislodged a chunk of scabbed-over flesh. Absently, he scratched at it, brushed it to the floor. "Mine will be the quicker. And the boy?"
He is on his way.
"Alone?"
With friends—a human male and a human female.
"Excellent! Excellent! This, then, is what you will order done."
Abdiel took hold of the hand of the mind-dead known as Mikael—all those who held this position of command were known as Mikael. There had been twelve Mikaels through the years. The others were now dead. (The cancer no longer killed within three days, but it killed, nonetheless.)
The mind-seizer placed his palm over the palm of his disciple, jabbing the needles into the man's flesh. Mikael did not flinch; he felt no pain that his master did not want him to feel.
Abdiel gave the mind-dead his orders.
The bonding was not really necessary. Abdiel could have given his commands by word of mouth or passed them from his brain to the brain of his disciple. But the mind-seizer had discovered his minions performed their tasks more efficiently if he renewed physical contact with them from time to time.
To say nothing of the fact that the bonding was the one and only physical pleasure he enjoyed.
Chapter Seven
Queen to King's Knight 4.
Chess move
Leaving Haupt's office after hearing Sagan’s startling message, Maigrey spent an unsatisfactory hour trying to figure out the Warlord's game. She was hampered in her efforts by the fact of his nearness—not his physical presence, but his mental. If she devoted too much thought to him, she had the unnerving impression that she would hear his voice providing her with the answers. At length, she abandoned the attempt as being too unnerving.
A mind-clearing rummage through XJ's musical files produced numerous selections of whatever screeching harmonics the younger generation was currently using to rebel against their elders. She did discover several files long buried in the computer's memory.
"What's this? Palestrina? XJ, how did you get Palestrina?"
"What is it?" the computer demanded nervously. "A virus?"
"No, no, not a virus. Palestrina was a composer. He wrote music for the ancient church. He was . . . one of Sagan's favorites."
"You're sure it's not a virus? It sounds like a virus," XJ insisted in gloomy tones.
"Yes, I'm sure." Maigrey smiled. "Where did you copy it? I don't believe Mendaharin Tusca would enjoy this type of music."
"Tusk? He tried playing his type of music in here once. Came near melting my circuits. That Pally stuff must ha
ve been copied from the Warlord's files. I . . . um . . . once spent some time with his computer. Not a bad sort, personally, but I could never get used to the military mind-set. ..."
"Play the music," Maigrey ordered softly.
XJ did as commanded. The chorus of monks' voices echoed in the small spaceplane.
"I like that," XJ said after a moment. "What're they saying?"
Et tibi dabo claves regni caelorum.
"'I will give unto thee the keys to the kingdom of heaven,'" Maigrey translated. She went to bed and slept soundly. Her discipline would allow her to do nothing else.
Morning on Laskar dawned. The sky was hazy and overcast, its green color tinged with brown, sullen and oppressive.
"There'll be a storm before the day's out," XJ predicted.
Maigrey thought it highly likely.
"Brigadier General Haupt reports the hoverjeep you requested is outside, your ladyship," the computer continued. "The estate's entrance is about forty kilometers from here."
"Yes, thank you, XJ," Maigrey said, preoccupied, trying to decide what to wear, having completely confounded Brigadier General Haupt by requesting that various articles of female clothing be sent to her spaceplane.
The base housed numerous women of various races and species. The corporal assigned to the task had been able to supply Maigrey with everything she requested. She spread the various garments out over every flat surface she could find on the small spaceplane, much to XJ's disgust.
"I thought this was a hazardous mission, your ladyship," the computer complained, indignant over a pair of spike-heeled shoes resting atop its console.
"It is." Maigrey held up a purple brocade evening dress by its puffy, beaded sleeves. "What do you think of this?"
"Blondes can't wear that shade of purple. Makes your skin tone look gray. And you couldn't move fast in that tight skirt. Why don’t you just wear your uniform . . . like any sensible man would do?"
"Oh. I could slit the side seams of the skirt open. I've done that before. But you're right. This dress won't do. And neither would a uniform. Adonians have rigid standards of propriety. Dressed as a man, I probably wouldn't even be allowed in Ohme's presence. And if I were, I'd lose ground in the bargaining. I'd be considered a freak, a spectacle. I wouldn't be taken seriously. And, above all, he will take me seriously." She laid the dress aside, picked up a long, shapeless black bundle, and studied it. "Yes, this. This will do."
"A bathrobe?" The computer was highly scandalized.
"A chador."
Maigrey shook out the shapeless garment, then drew the enveloping robes over her lightweight body armor. She struggled beneath the meters of smothering cloth in her efforts to find openings for her head and arms and finally emerged, face flushed, hair disheveled, shaking the gown down around her. Black cloth enveloped her slender form, shrouding her from shoulders to toes. Very little flesh was left exposed. A high collar wrapped around her neck. Long flowing sleeves, ending in tight-fitting cuffs, extended over her wrists and the backs of her hands.
"Charming," the computer sneered.
Maigrey studied herself in Tusk's shaving mirror, her fingers moving to touch the scar on her cheek.
Adonians love that which is beautiful, abhor that which is ugly, flawed, marred. I could conceal the scar, I know. Plastiskin would provide me with a complexion smooth and white as milk.
She lifted the chador's black veil and wound it slowly and deliberately around her face, her head, her neck, and her shoulders.
It was useless attempting to cover the scar. She had never tried it, but she knew it wouldn't work. Though others couldn't see it, she could. And because she could see it, the scar would be visible even to the blind. Yet it wouldn't do to offend the sensibilities of the Adonian. Maigrey pulled the veil over her nose and mouth, hiding everything except the gray eyes.
"I have to admit that . . . er . . . that shroud's not a bad idea, your ladyship," XJ remarked grudgingly. "You could hide a missile launcher inside that body bag! By the way, you'll find a missile launcher in the storage compartment there underneath the trash compactor. Also a nice assortment of blades, grenades, and a needle-gun that fits in a shoulder holster—"
Maigrey moved to the storage compartment, knelt, and opened it up. But her hands went past the assortment of weapons, collected by Tusk over the years, to a small rosewood box the mercenary would not have recognized as belonging to him. She caressed the polished wood. When her fingers began to tremble, she hurriedly thrust it beneath the folds of the chador, secreting it in a zippered pocket of the body armor.
Rising to her feet, she started toward the ladder leading up and out of the spaceplane. She frowned slightly, having forgotten that she would have to negotiate the climb encumbered by the robe's flowing skirts. "Keep the hatch sealed," she ordered XJ. "No one is to come aboard in my absence."
"Sure, sure. Wait, your ladyship! You've forgotten to take any weapons! Women!" the computer muttered, but was sufficiently impressed with the lady to keep its volume low.
"Thank you, XJ." Maigrey, skirts in one hand, was climbing the ladder with difficulty. "But from what I understand of the Adonian's security, I couldn't smuggle a butter knife into his house."
"You said yourself this character couldn't be trusted. Listen, your ladyship," XJ said eagerly, "I've got plastic explosive, looks and tastes just like chewing gum! Put a wad in your mouth and no one'd ever suspect. You've only got to be careful about one thing—don't blow bubbles. ..."
"No, thank you, XJ. It won't be necessary."
Maigrey stopped at the top of the ladder, thrust open the hatch, and looked out over the large, walled complex that was Fort Laskar. A squad was drilling on the parade ground, men and women baking in the hot sun, being driven by a bulldog of a sergeant snapping at their heels. In another area, the fort's band practiced, its music brisk and metallic, punctuated by the rattle of drums. Five suborbital fighters flew high overhead, dark spots against the nauseous green sun. Sonic waves broke over the base, rattling windowpanes, jarring taut nerves.
Standing on the ladder, preparatory to climbing up and out, Maigrey rested her hands on the hull, rested her chin on her hands, and gazed out over the people, the buildings, the walls to the bleak and barren horizon and beyond.
Sagan was far away, yet he was near, so near to her that it seemed if she stretched forth her hand, she would touch him. He walked at her side, hovering over her like some dark angel. She had only to speak, and he would answer.
The mental link between them was strong; it had never been stronger, not even in the days of their youth, when they had been far closer than they were now.
"Or perhaps not," she said to herself. "Then we were bound by light, by intellect, by victory, by beauty. We were strong, immortal, invincible. We were young. But now he and I are bound by chains much stronger: by darkness, by age and experience, by sorrow and pain, by fear . . . and by death."
"Your ladyship, please reconsider!" XJ, in its remote unit, popped up out of the hatch, lights flashing in consternation, small arms wiggling. "The Adonian's dangerous! You can't go alone, unarmed!"
Maigrey's hand lightly touched the black fabric of the chador covering the rosewood box hidden at her breast. "I won't be going unarmed." Her gaze, intent, somber, shifted to the heavens, to the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "And I won't be going alone."
Maigrey brought the hoverjeep to a halt, allowing it to settle down into the dust of the road. She had traveled through vast open desert, diving down into a steep, narrow ravine, rocketing up a rock-strewn defile, and finally arriving at Snaga Ohme's estate. A tall bronze gate, set into a high-standing wall made of the garish, multicolored crystalline brick that was popular on (and no doubt imported from) the man's home planet of Adonia, formed the entrance to the fortresslike dwelling.
Maigrey, craning her neck, could barely see the tops of giant trees lifting their green limbs above the wall. Bold abstract patterns, formed out of the myriad colored bricks, dazz
led the eye. The bronze gate was highly polished, the gleam from the metal nearly blinding, even in the hazy sunlight. And it was all strictly for show. Maigrey could hear the faint hum of the force field that was the true guardian of the Adonian's vast wealth.
Leaning back in the seat of the hoverjeep, she watched and waited for her presence to be acknowledged.
Several bricks suddenly slid aside. Numerous computer remotes, of the type known as "killer remotes" because of their armaments, floated out of the wall and took up positions around her vehicle. One, the leader, bobbed over to Maigrey, keeping level with her head.
"Please remove yourself from your vehicle," the remote instructed, speaking general military.
Maigrey did as she was told. Several of the remotes surrounded the hoverjeep, inspecting it with their scanners.
"A beam rifle," one reported.
"Deactivate it," the lead remote ordered.
"It's dangerous country out there," Maigrey protested, gesturing with a black-robed hand. "I have to drive back. ..." She had switched languages, using muslamic, the language of the women of the chador.
The remote was nonplussed. It answered her in the same language, speaking fluently and idiomatically.
"We will reactivate the weapon upon your return," the remote informed her. "Name?"
"Major Penthesilea. I am expected."
"Snaga Ohme expects everything and nothing," the remote intoned. "You have clearance to pass. Your vehicle will remain under our care. When I open the gate, walk through immediately; do not dawdle. Proceed directly to the tram. Do not step off the path. I repeat. Do not step off the path. Once inside the tram, do not make any attempt to remove yourself from the tram while it is in motion. This is for your own safety and protection. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Accompany me, please." The remote led her forward to the gate, the other remotes backing off but keeping her under close surveillance.
The bronze gate swung open at Maigrey's approach; she heard the hum of the force field change in tone. Passing through the gate, accompanied by the remote, she noticed the walls decorated with what she might have expected from an Adonian—Snaga Ohme's portrait.
King's Test Page 17