"The living scaring the dead," she whispered. "Not as farfetched as you think, old man. This prince of yours terrifies me."
Chapter Four
We're not going to a church social.
The Magnificent Seven
Half-asleep, Xris lounged on his bed in the high-class hotel room on Ceres, watching a vid through a hazy cloud of tobacco smoke. The vid was a B-grade police thriller, with a premise as phony as the hero's hair. Xris had been a Fed himself, before the "accident" left him more machine than man, and he'd gotten a few laughs watching the hero break more laws in catching the criminal than the criminal had broken in the first place. They had reached the hovercopter chase sequence when the phone buzzed.
Xris activated the vidscreen to see who was calling.
A message came up on the screen: Sorry, the caller isn't dialing from a vidphone.
The phone continued to buzz. Xris picked up the handset, held it to his ear, said nothing.
Total silence at the end of a completed connection would be extremely disconcerting to most callers, especially those who had no business calling. But not this particular caller.
"Xris Cyborg," came the lilting, drugged voice.
Xris exhaled softly. "Raoul.''
"And the Little One."
"Of course. One sixteen." He hung up.
After several minutes—longer than it would have taken ordinarily but, depending on what drug Raoul had ingested that morning, the Loti might be having difficult)' reading the room numbers—there came a knock at the door.
Xris walked over, answered it. He didn't even bother to glance through the small peephole to make certain of his visitors' identity. He didn't need to. Raoul's perfume wafted through the closed door, began a contest to see which could smell worse—the perfume or the foul odor of the twist's smoke. Xris gave it even odds, opened the door.
"Xris Cyborg." Raoul blinked, as if amazed to see him. Perhaps where he was, why he had knocked.
The Loti flipped his long silky black hair over his shoulders with a deft move of his delicate hands. He was dressed in crushed pink velvet knee breeches, tied with pink ribbons over a pair of white hose, ending in black dancing pumps. An orange velvet doublet, slashed open here and there to reveal puffs of pink silk, completed his ensemble. A pink lace bow was tied around his neck.
"Charming," said Xris. The Loti liked to be complimented on a new outfit.
"Thank you," Raoul replied, smoothing his hair.
He drifted into the room. (Now that the two were in dose proximity, the perfume easily felled Xris's tobacco smoke.) The Little One shuffled along behind his friend. The long raincoat—which seemed to grow shabbier every time Xris saw it—dragged on the floor. Two bright eyes stared out at the cyborg from beneath the rim of the battered fedora.
Xris shut the door. "Yeah? What's up?"
"Very nice," said Raoul approvingly, glancing around the room. He sat down in a chair, made himself comfortable, crossing his legs at his shapely ankles, and began to blissfully contemplate a minuscule speck staining his white hose. "Look, a spot. That oaf who bumped up against me at the reception desk. Beast."
Raoul sniffed and, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror opposite, pulled out a tube and touched up his Up gloss.
Wondering idly if Raoul was wearing the poisoned variety, Xris resumed his seat on the bed. The cyborg knew it was useless to try to hurry the Loti. Raoul would tell his own story in his own way and in his own time. The Little One, meanwhile, curled like a dog at Raoul's feet. The bright eyes vanished behind the raincoat's turned-up collar. He, she, or it (Xris still had no idea) was apparently going to sleep.
"I am certain you are wondering why we have transported ourselves this vast distance across a galaxy to speak to you in person, Xris Cyborg," began Raoul, licking one slender finger (making certain not to mar the lip gloss) and rubbing it on the invisible spot on his white hose. "Not that the Little One and I do not deem it a pleasure to once again see you, friend Xris."
Xris lit a twist, inhaled, breathed out, nodded, and waited.
Having gotten rather distracted, the Adonian paused a mo-ment to collect his thoughts—tantamount to trying to catch butterflies without a net. Raoul glanced down gratefully at his companion, who had not spoken a word—aloud.
"Thank you for reminding me. Yes, that was it. We were residing with our comrades in the home of our late employer, Snaga Ohme—our comrades send their regards as well, Xris Cyborg. As I was saying, we were residing in the dwelling of our late employer, Snaga Ohme, when we received a most important message, highest priority, code number . . ." Raoul paused, looked vague, fluttered a hand, "I can never remember those silly numbers. At any rate, you may take my word for it that the message was considerably urgent."
He regarded Xris with limpid eyes.
"What was the message?" Xris asked, puffing on the twist.
Raoul's eyelids fluttered. He was wearing pink eye shadow. "Ah, yes. The message. Her Majesty, the queen, is in extreme danger. Possible kidnapping attempt."
"Son of a bitch," said Xris. He took the twist out of his mouth. "Who'd the message come from? And why didn't you just transmit it? You wasted maybe a day, day and a half getting here—"
"Ah, there is a reason for that, Xris Cyborg," interrupted Raoul, and the Loti's eyes were suddenly, disconcertingly sharp and shrewd. "The sender was most emphatic in insisting that this message be presented to you in person. We were therefore forced to assume that the sender did not want to take even the smallest chance that this message might be intercepted."
"Okay, I can see that. Who sent it? Dixter?"
Raoul shook his head. The silky hair slid down his shoulders. He brushed it carefully back. "We do not know who sent the message."
Xris stared, then frowned. "That's impossible. You said it was coded. Surely either Lee or Harry remembers the code numbers," he added with a sarcasm that he knew would be completely lost on the Adonian. "And if you didn't know who sent it, then why the devil—"
"Devil!" Raoul smiled in delight. "One might consider that appropriate." He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, one might. As a matter of fact, Bernard recognized the code number, Xris Cyborg though it had been many years since he had seen it. The code number belongs to the late Lord Derek Sagan."
Xris would have raised an eyebrow, both eyebrows, except that he didn't have any eyebrows, only acid burns on his bald head. "Son of a bitch," he said again, speculatively. He put the twist back in his mouth.
"Bernard's precise words," said Raoul gravely.
"Must be a hoax."
"How is that possible, Xris Cyborg? Would anyone else have known Lord Sagan's code number?"
"Lady Maigrey knew it."
"Ah, yes, well . .." Raoul replied, momentarily downcast. "I grew to be quite fond of the Lady Maigrey. So did the Little One. I trust she forgives us the unfortunate incident during which we once attempted to poison her. It was in the champagne. My late employer, Snaga Ohme, did not trust her. A disagreement over the precise ownership of the space-rotation bomb—"
What this had to do with anything was beyond Xris. He interrupted the Adonian's ramblings. "Does the Little One have any feelings about this message?"
"He was considerably upset. He is opposed to kidnapping under most circumstances, and he has a high opinion of Her Majesty—"
"I don't mean that," Xris snapped. "I mean did he get any . .. you know—feelings ... about who sent the goddam message!"
Raoul's eyes opened wide, evincing astonishment. "My, my, we are irritable." He paused a moment, glanced down at the Little One. "Is that so?" He looked back at Xris. "Well, well, well. Now I understand. I am sorry, friend Xris. I did not mean to unduly try your patience. Yes, the Little One did receive a sort of a feeling from the message. The Little One is of the opinion that the message could have quite possibly come from Lord Sagan."
"Quite possibly?" Xris repeated. "Just what the hell—"
The Little One lifted his head; the two brig
ht eyes were once again visible. Xris wondered what all that sympathetic "well, well-ing" had been over and just exactly what Raoul was sorry about.
"Skip it," he said, mulling things over.
Sagan's body had never been recovered, nor any remnants of his spaceplane. Not that one usually found remnants of a plane after the Corasians had finished with it. Or body parts either. But Xris had always wondered. He'd always assumed that it would take a lot more than a bunch of lava-brained aliens to do in Derek Sagan.
"So let's suppose that Sagan is alive." He put the proposition to Raoul, who tried hard to look interested. "And he sent this message, using his old code number because that's the only one he knows, yet making it clear that he doesn't expect me to get curious about who sent it or why.
"Which I'm not," he added reassuringly, glancing around the room, just in case. Derek Sagan was one person the cyborg didn't intend to cross—dead or alive. "It's none of my business.
"But this about the queen," he continued. "This is my business."
Her Majesty was paying him to hang around on Ceres, in case she needed help with the king's mistress or to return the young woman to her home or whatever other plan Astarte had dreamed up. Women. Xris decided that never in his entire life would he understand them.
He recalled a conversation he'd had with her on their way back to Ceres after leaving the Academy.
"I know what I'd do if this were my wife's lover," he'd said, looking down at the comatose Kamil.
"Oh?" Astarte had regarded him with maddening calm. "Did your wife have lovers?"
"Huh?" Xris had stared at her. "We're not talking about me—"
Astarte had merely shrugged. "You brought it up. Shall I tell you what I think about your wife? That she has loved no one in her life but you. She still loves you. And you risked your life to save her from a horrible death. How wonderful you must have looked to her, alone and frightened in that terrible place. Like an angel. . . ."
At that point, Xris had walked out.
"W hat shall we do, friend Xris?" Raoul prodded the cyborg out of his reverie. "Are we to take this seriously? Should we alert the king? Warn Her Majesty—"
"It's not that simple," Xris muttered. He stood up, took a twist from his pocket, stared at it, shoved it back. Walking over to the window, he parted the curtain a centimeter, looked outside. "We can send a message to His Majesty through Dixter. Though I'm not sure what good that will do. His Majesty's there, the queen's here."
Raoul glanced in some astonishment around the room.
"In the Temple of the Goddess on Ceres," Xris explained.
"Oh ..." Raoul smiled. "I see."
"Yeah. And that's the problem. The only people who can get inside that temple are holy types. Priests and priestesses, that sort."
"Not us?" Raoul was disappointed.
"No, not us."
"A pity. I did so want to meet Her Majesty. She has a trick of putting on liquid eyeliner.. . . I've attempted to emulate it, but I cannot seem to get it to look the way she does. I was going to ask her—"
"Some other time," said Xris dryly.
"I suppose. . . . Could we get a message to her? You must be in communication—"
"Her Majesty communicates with me. Not me with her. Especially now. These are Holy Days or something like that. The High Priestess is incommunicado."
"What about her mother, the baroness? A woman of great physical prowess. I've always imagined she'd be good with whips. .. ." Raoul sighed.
Xris was thinking, and it wasn't about Adonian "imaginings." People made vids out of those.
"No," said the cyborg at length. "Obviously Sagan—or whoever sent that damn message—doesn't want this spread all over the galaxy. And what could we say anyway? What have we got? A voice from the grave. DiLuna would laugh us off the planet."
He gave the matter more thought, made a decision. "I'll send a report to Dixter. See what he says. He may know something about this from his end. Then we'll try to get an audience with the queen."
Now that his mind was made up, Xris began to move with his customary speed. "We'll head back to the spaceport; my plane's parked there. I'll contact Dixter, pick up weapons. Speaking of which, you boys armed?"
"The usual," said Raoul, smiling.
"I don't think poison lip gloss is going to come in handy." Xris grunted. "What about him? He got that blowgun of his?"
"The Little One always carries it about his person. He finds it gives him a secure feeling. So much anger in the universe ..."
"Yeah, it's a problem, all right. Bernard said you've made some improvement in shooting a lasgun."
"So long as the target is fairly large and makes no sudden movements, I have been known to come extremely close." Raoul rose to his feet, paused to study his shapely calves anxiously in the mirror. "Does that spot show?"
"You look lovely," the cyborg assured him, herding him and the Little One out the door.
"Thank you, friend Xris. As to the shooting," continued Raoul, considerably charmed with the subject, "I must admit I do believe I am improving. Lately, on the target range, I have only hit myself twice, the Little One once, and Bernard three times. I believe that is a personal best."
"Stick to lip gloss," Xris advised.
Large crowds lined the roads leading up to the mountain to the temple. This day of the week long festival celebrating the coming of spring was the day for the Procession of the Children. Everyone in the temple city was -present to witness the parade of the Goddess's chosen, winding its slow and solemn way to the temple proper.
The parade was not, as one might suppose, a parade dedicated to the celebration of youth. All mortal beings are considered children of the Goddess. Those taking part in the procession (the only ones permitted inside the sacred precinct on this day) were the priests and priestesses who served the Goddess. They came from all over the galaxy, wherever the Goddess was honored. Each wore his or her own native dress and, as there were also many alien species in the parade, the procession was always a colorful and educational event.
Everyone attended. Businesses were closed. Transportation in and around and over the city of Ceres came to a virtual standstill. All major routes were blocked off. People lined the streets. Hover traffic was prohibited, ostensibly in keeping with the sacred nature of the day, in reality to prevent midair collisions over the parade route.
Xris reached the spaceport before air-space was shut down. In his ship, he made a quick call to Dixter, who was vague when it came to Derek Sagan, but emphatic in urging the cyborg to get to the temple—fast. And that, unfortunately, proved impossible. Airspace was now off-limits and ground traffic was backed up for kilometers. Xris commandeered a motorcycle, drove it as near the temple as possible. (Raoul, clinging to Xris tightly; the Little One, adhering to Raoul's back like a leech, was ecstatic.) When even the motorcycle got bogged down, Xris abandoned it. The three took to their feet.
The cyborg's strength cleaved a path through the throng, though he made few friends along the route. He pushed, shoved, and occasionally lifted people bodily out of his way. Those who thought at first they were going to be angry over being manhandled quickly changed their minds when they saw the sunlight shining off the cyborg's steel hand. Raoul and the Little One followed in the wake left by Xris's passing, stumbling over feet and legs and offering a babbling, ever-flowing stream of apologies.
"And these people call themselves religious!" Raoul stated, his cheeks and ears flushed red with exertion and indignation. "I've never heard such language! The Little One is quite shaken."
Xris glanced down at the small figure, saw that the fedora was trembling, the raincoat shivering. Raoul had hold of one of his friend's arms, was half-supporting, half-dragging him along.
"Tell the Little One I'm sorry, but I don't have time to be polite." Xris paused a moment to scan the situation.
They had reached the main road leading from the city to the temple. The head of the procession was still several meters behind them
, moving along at a slow pace. The temple was in front of him.
Leading the procession were prominent people from all over the galaxy. Last year, the king himself had attended, walking the path with the rest of the faithful, endearing himself to the crowd. This year, pressures of state had forced His Majesty to forgo his appearance, but the prime minister was in attendance, as well as numerous members of the Galactic parliament, other religious leaders, and dignitaries and potentates from all over the galaxy.
The doors to the temple were open to receive them. Temple guards stood on the stairs; priests were on hand to welcome the faithful inside. Astarte, queen and High Priestess, was not visible. According to Dixter, she would be somewhere inside the temple proper, spending the day in devout prayer. She would not be seen at all, would not greet her guests until after sundown, when all would assemble in a large arena on the temple grounds.
"Now that we are here, friend Xris," said Raoul as he en-deavored to soothe the wounded feelings of the Little One, "what do we do?"
"Beats the hell out of me," Xris stated, eyeing the situation with mounting frustration.
There was no way, absolutely no way—that Xris could see—to get inside. A reporter tried it, waving something in the air and jabbering about a press pass. One of the temple guards strong-armed the man, turned him over to the baroness's army. The reporter was hustled away without ceremony. The last Xris saw of the man, he was being made to eat his press pass. The cyborg swore beneath his breath, took out a twist, stuck it in his mouth, and began to chew on the end.
"Surely the queen is safe for the moment," Raoul commented. "No one would attempt anything in this mob, under the eyes of the galaxy." He cast a significant glance at the staring lenses of innumerable remote vidcams that hovered over the heads of the crowds.
"Who knows? If it was some sort of terrorist group, they'd like nothing better than to be splashed all over the vidscreen. Dixter took it seriously enough."
"He promised he would endeavor to warn Her Majesty of her danger," Raoul shouted, raising his voice to be heard above the roar of the crowd.
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