"Demonio! E come puoi tanto securo oprar?"
"You devil! And how do you avoid being caught?" sings the baritone in the opera.
Maigrey, waiting for the reply, hummed the response beneath her breath.
"Coming in now, my lady," reported Agis.
Music and a bass voice sounded from the computer, triggered by the correct code signal.
"L'uomo di sera aspetto . . . una stoccata, e muor."
"I await the man at night . . . one thrust and he's dead."
"That's him," said the centurion, tone grim.
"You disapprove, Agis?" Maigrey asked.
He stared out the viewscreen at the ship, drifting some distance from them.
"No, my lady," he said finally, heavily. "I think you made a wise decision. He is completely and totally devoted to my lord. To my lord," the centurion emphasized, glancing back at Maigrey.
She nodded. "I understand. I judged so myself. But he's good. I've seen him at work."
"My lord would have no other," said Agis simply.
"It looks like a peddler." Daniel was staring at the spaceship in confusion.
The ship had come to a halt, waiting for further instructions. A small vessel, it was extremely nondescript in appearance, this particular model having been cranked out by the millions during the space rush toward the end of the second Dark Ages. Cheap and reliable, the saucer-shaped craft had been used to carry a burgeoning population off a desperately sick planet.
The craft's original builders and designers—knowing that once most travelers set forth in these vehicles, they would have a difficult time finding a service station along the route—had made it a selling point that their workmanship would last, and in case it did malfunction, the craft was easily repairable. All parts were interchangeable, detailed repair manuals were included with every purchase, and the "volksrocket," as it came to be affectionately known, was mainly responsible for the population of other stars.
Due to their high state of reliability, the proliferation of parts, and their sheer numbers, many of the volksrockets were still in existence, surviving mainly by cannibalism. Cheap and fuel efficient, they were used by itinerant traveling salesmen, groupies tagging along after rock stars, drifters, migrant workers.
"A peddler?" repeated Maigrey, studying the vessel that had no weapons, looked shabby and in need of a fresh coat of paint. "Yes, you could say that. A peddler of death."
Daniel looked up at her swiftly, a half smile on his face, thinking she was joking. One glance at her—face pale and serious—and at Agis's grim expression, and the priest's smile slipped.
"I don't understand."
"Soon, Brother Fideles, you will be introduced to one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy. Sparafucile, a professional assassin. He could kill you in less time than it takes to say the word."
Daniel looked grave. "How did you come to meet such a person, my lady?"
"I met him on Laskar. He saved my life. Lord Sagan introduced us. He works for Lord Sagan."
Maigrey and Agis both watched the effect of this information on the young priest's expressive face. The blow was a telling one, striking deep, drawing blood. He realized he was under scrutiny, looked from one to the other, then lowered his eyes beneath the calm, penetrating gazes.
"You mean my lord hires him to kill people. I don't believe it."
Maigrey sighed. "Brother Fideles, look at me. Do you see the scar on my face?"
The young priest lifted unhappy, confused eyes, focused on the terrible disfiguring scar that marred the smooth complexion of the right cheek. He glanced hurriedly away.
"Look at it, Brother," Maigrey commanded. "Look at it closely. The scar represents the flaw—the fatal, tragic flaw—in Sagan, in myself. It led him to betray his king, to commit murder and worse. It led me to break a vow, to betray a sacred trust. We are fallen angels, cast out of heaven. Our redemption—if redemption is possible for us—is Dion. The darkness has overtaken us; it has overtaken Peter Robes. If it overtakes Dion, we are lost."
The young priest sat with head bowed.
"Brother Fideles"—Maigrey's voice was gentle, a whisper to be heard by the heart—"I walk in darkness so thick around me, I can't begin to see my way out. I shouldn't have allowed you to come. And, in fact, I think I'll leave you behind. There's a small planet, not far from here, where you could catch a freighter back to your Abbey. You have duties there."
Brother Fideles didn't answer her. Maigrey kept silent, aware that he was listening to a voice she herself could no longer hear. At last he sighed, raised his head, looked directly at her, at the scar on her face.
"God's will is clear, my lady. I am to stay with you."
Maigrey rocked back on her heels, stared at him, exasperated, not knowing quite what to do. "Listen to me, Brother.
Those of us who walk in darkness must use the ways of darkness. Do you understand what you're letting yourself in for?"
"I understand," said Fideles. His gaze, steady, unwavering, met hers and did not falter.
Maigrey stood up abruptly, turned and walked back to the living quarters.
"He doesn't, of course," she muttered, throwing the wet towel irritably to the deck, kicking it beneath her bunk with her foot. "He has no idea what he's getting into. He's untrained, unfit for this job. He won't carry a weapon, not even to save his own life. He'll end up getting killed ... if we're lucky. If we're not, he'll end up getting us all killed! Why? Why am I going along with this?"
Because, came the answer, you have no say in this decision. He's gone over your head, to the top. He's acting under Another's orders. You've been outranked.
"All right, then, but if he gets into trouble, You have to get him out!" Maigrey put on her body armor, then her silver armor, pulled the black tunic and pants over it, ran a comb through her wet, straggling hair.
"Agis, I want to talk to Sparafucile."
"Yes, my lady." Agis raised the ship.
A voice, sibilant as a snake's, came over the commlink.
"Starlady! Well met."
The sound of that voice conjured up unwelcome memories. Maigrey shivered involuntarily, steeled herself to the duty at hand. The present. That was all that mattered. The present.
"You received my communication?"
"Sparafucile is here, isn't he?"
"Do you know why I sent for you?"
"I see newsvids. Sagan Lord is truly in Corasia?"
"I have every reason to believe so."
"He not go, like they say, voluntarily?"
"No."
"Then we get him back."
Maigrey smiled at the assassin's confident tone. "Yes. We get him back. I have a plan. But I need men—the kind who'll choose money over scruples—and a small attack ship, a torpedo boat or something similar."
"You have money? Hard money, no credit?"
"Yes."
"Then I know where we can find what you need. I send you course change. You follow me. Your plane is, by the way, hot, Starlady."
"I know. One reason I want to travel together. I presume that thing you're flying is faster and better equipped than it looks."
"She fast, Starlady. More to her than meet the eye."
"I'll bet that's true enough," Agis muttered beneath his breath.
Maigrey laid a hand on his shoulder, counseled silence.
Coordinates flashed on the screen. The centurion glanced up questioningly, asking if he should enter them, make the necessary corrections.
"Get up," she said. "I'll take over."
Agis rose to his feet, moved respectfully out of her way, and took his place in the co-pilot's position, which was hastily vacated by Brother Fideles.
Slowly, Maigrey sat down in the pilot's seat, her hand hovering over the needles embedded in the arm of the chair, needles that would link her directly with the spaceplane.
"Where are we headed?" she asked the assassin.
"Hell's Outpost. A place that calls itself the Exile's Cafe. You know it, Sta
rlady?"
"I know it. At least, I knew of it. I'm surprised it survived the Revolution."
"Kings come and kings go but business is business forever, Starlady."
"A comforting philosophy, Sparafucile. I'll talk to you on the other side." She cut off communication. "This will suit us, Agis. Exactly what we need. Go ahead and make the course change."
Maigrey rested her hand on the needles, wincing slightly as the virus and micromachines that made her mind one with the spaceplane flowed into her bloodstream.
"Strap yourself in, Brother. We'll be making the Jump. Oh, and now would be an excellent time to say your prayers," she said, glancing back at the priest with a smile.
She meant it as a joke. It must not have come out that way.
"Yes, my lady," said Brother Fideles softly.
Chapter Six
In solitude What happiness? Who can enjoy alone, Or all enjoying, what contentment find?
John Milton, Paradise Lost
"You expect me to land there?"
"That's it, according to the coordinates Olefsky gave us," Tusk answered.
"It's on the side of a mountain!" XJ's audio crackled with shock. "I'll fall off!"
"Scanners indicate a nice wide ledge," Tusk said soothingly.
"Ledge! Ledge!" The computer sputtered. "I want an airfield, a space pad, a long, smooth runway. I want landing lights. I want air traffic control!"
"Well, you're not going to get it. According to the readings there are only two directions on this world—up and down. This ledge looks to be the longest, widest cleared patch of ground around for a few thousand .kilometers."
"I refuse to do it. I won't land."
"Fine," said Tusk. "And while you're at it, calculate the amount of fuel we're using orbiting this planet."
XJ was silent, avarice wrestling with self-preservation.
"All right, I'll land. But I want to go on record ..."
The landing was as tooth-jarring, bone-rattling, and uncomfortable as XJ could possibly make it, including a harrowing dive between two snowcapped peaks, ending in a near collision with the side of the mountain. The plane's roar touched off a small avalanche, snow plummeted down on top of the spaceplane, completely burying it.
"There," said XJ smugly when the plane had come to a shuddering, grinding halt. "I hope you're happy."
"He is, XJ," said Nola, digging her nails into Tusk's arm. "We've never been happier."
Dion unstrapped himself, looked ruefully at the bruises on his arms, carefully felt his ribs to see if any were broken. Tusk, wiping blood from his mouth where he'd bitten into his tongue, muttered imprecations and attempted in vain to see out the snow-covered viewscreen.
"Better get out our winter gear. XJ, turn up the heat."
"I will not. If there is fuel to be found on this rock, which I doubt, the price these Neanderthals charge is probably outrageous. I'm not wasting any just so you can work up a sweat putting your shorts on. Besides, the sooner you're out of here, the better. I've got repairs to make."
"Repairs!" Tusk swung around. "What repairs? What have you done to my plane—"
"Your plane! Your plane!" XJ momentarily lost the ability to communicate and simply repeated the two words several times before it could get its system straightened out.
"We'll see when we get outside," said Nola hastily, zipping herself into a fur-lined parka. "C'mon. Let's take a look. It's probably nothing. ..."
"I dunno," said Tusk, pulling his parka on over his head. "I thought I heard a crunching sound. That left deflector shield— XJ, was it the left deflector shield?"
"I'm not talking," the computer said darkly. "After all, it's your plane!"
Tusk headed for the cockpit. "I'll have your microchips for lunch—"
"In case you're interested," XJ continued smugly, "several large and hairy brutes have gathered around your plane and are poking at it with sticks."
Thumps and rattles could be heard on the outside of the hull. Tusk, swearing loudly, pulled on his gloves, and hastened up the ladder.
"Open the hatch."
XJ did so, obeying orders with startling alacrity. The hatch whirred open, a shower of snow and ice cascaded down on Tusk's bare head. Nola began to laugh, saw the look on Tusk's face, and buried her giggles in her mittens. Dion bent over, rummaging in his rucksack to hide his smile.
Tusk brushed snow out of his face, stared upward. "Jeez, that looks pretty deep. I don't know how we're gonna—"
A gigantic hand and arm punched down through the snow, sending another small avalanche into the plane's interior. A bearded, grinning face thrust through the hatch opening.
"Welcome to Solgart!" boomed Olefsky in a bellow that shook the plane. "By my ears and eyeballs, it's good to see you in my homeland. Come up! Come up! Here, I'll give you a hand."
Reaching down, the Bear caught hold of the hood of Tusk's parka, lifted the mercenary like a child, and hoisted him up through the hatch.
"My sons are digging you out," stated Olefsky proudly, pointing to several large, hulking, fur-covered figures wielding crude shovels or simply tossing snow into the air using nothing but their hands and arms.
Half blinded by the white storm the enthusiastic young Olefskys were creating, Tusk peered through the flying snow, alarmed at the sound of blows rattling on his plane's hull. "No! Don't! Thanks, but it's all right! Really!"
The young men looked at him from the depths of long, shaggy hair, grinned, and waved. Obviously, these two couldn't understand Standard Military.
"No! Don't do that. . . . Uh, Bear"—Tusk fumbled at his translator, but his gloved fingers couldn't operate it—"could you tell them thanks for trying to help but that we can generate enough heat through the hull to melt the snow and"—he winced at a particularly loud bang—"I really hate to see them go to all this trouble—"
"Trouble? It is no trouble!" The Bear laughed, slapped Tusk on the back, knocking the breath from his body. "You are our guest. But you are right. These lummoxes would probably do your vessel harm. Enough! Enough!" Olefsky waved a huge gloved hand.
The young Olefskys, who looked as if they could have picked up the spaceplane and shaken the snow off of it if they'd wanted, backed off, grinning widely. Tusk sat on the hull, gasped for air that was noticeably thin on top of this mountain, and wondered if his shoulder blades were still intact. Bear, reaching down, lifted Nola up through the hatch.
"Thank you, Bear. I can manage. I—"
"I hear you are a wife! I lass the bride!"
Nola vanished in the embrace of Bear's huge, fur-covered arms. She emerged flushed and pink-cheeked and laughing. Glancing over the side of the spaceplane, she saw the ladder covered with snow and looked somewhat dubiously at the long drop from the top to the ground.
"Ah! The way down is difficult. Do not worry. I will help you."
Gathering Nola up in his arms, Bear called to his sons and, before the woman could utter a cry, tossed her into the waiting arms of his boys. They caught Nola securely, set her gently and respectfully on her feet, each bobbing and ducking a shaggy head in an anxious, friendly manner.
Nola gulped, blinked, and looked up dazedly at Tusk.
"No, thank you!" Tusk said, seeing Bear reaching out his arms for him. "I can manage on my own! Kid!" He leaned over, shouted down the hatch. "You coming?"
"In a minute," Dion returned. "I've got to go over the security measures with XJ."
"Oh, yeah. All the excitement, I forgot. I'm gonna take a look around the plane."
Tusk slithered down the side of the spaceplane, bobbed and ducked in an exchange of greetings with the Olefsky brothers, then clambered around the outside of the plane, endeavoring to determine the extent of the damage.
Inside, Dion and XJ were making certain that the space-rotation bomb was safely stowed away, secure.
"Set up the security the way the Lady Maigrey had it set up," Dion ordered. "You have to hear my voice and mine alone, identify my handprint, and . . . and something of
mine—this ring." He lifted the fire-opal ring that he wore around his neck, exhibited it to the computer. "I don't think the bomb'll be in any danger on this planet, but best to be prepared."
"Gotcha. And if anyone starts messing around with it?"
"You've got that new brain gas we installed. Use that. Knock them out and sound the alarm." Dion held up a small device, worn on his wrist. "I'll be here as soon as I can."
"We're not sure the gas works. Say, I've got an idea. Why don't you let me try it out on Tusk?"
Dion smothered a smile. "It works. Sagan developed it. That's the same gas Captain Williams was planning to use on us on Defiant."
"But what about—"
"It knocks out most alien life-forms, too. At least according to Dr. Giesk, it does."
"Most?" repeated XJ gloomily.
"All those who have the same type of central nervous system or something like that. Quit worrying." Dion put on a parka over his green wool sweater. "Lock up after I'm gone."
"It probably wouldn't have worked on Tusk anyway," XJ muttered. "After all, it is called 'brain' gas."
Dion grinned, climbed up the ladder, made good his escape from the computer, only to find himself half-smothered in the Bear's enthusiastic welcoming hug.
A short walk down the steep mountainside from the ledge where XJ was grudgingly parked brought them to another ledge, bathed in sunlight and sheltered by gigantic boulders from the wind and snow. Several enormous beasts were tethered here. At the sight (and undoubtedly the smell) of the Olefskys, the beasts lifted their heads and brayed—a head-splitting squeal that started several minor snowslides. The beasts stood taller than two Olefsky brothers if one had been standing on another's shoulders, and were wider in girth than the Bear himself. Long black hair, which looked rough but was remarkably soft to the touch, covered the beasts' bodies, fell in graceful, shining cascades from head and back to the ground. Their heads were horned, with intelligent eyes. They reminded Dion of gigantic goats.
The Olefskys each mounted one of these creatures—which Bear called grons—pulling themselves up onto the broad backs by grabbing hold of handfuls of the long hair and literally climbing up the side of the patient and apparently thick-skinned animals. Tusk and Nola mounted, each riding in back of a young Olefsky. Bear insisted that Dion travel with him.
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