Durg snapped his fingers, indicating Malika, and then petitioned the ancestors. The woman’s eyes widened in terror. She suddenly ripped her blade loose and, driving it deep into her belly, ripped upward.
Blaise released her and pounced on the shocked Vayawand. Had their defenses been fully in place, he would never have captured them, but they were in total shock—the mudcrawler had controlled a Morakh. Then the three nobles were down, writhing on the floor, slowly suffocating. Durg flashed across the intervening space and yanked Malika’s pistol free, tossed it to Blaise. The boy snatched it out of the air, grabbed Kelly by the arm, jerked the smaller man onto his lap, and tangled the barrel of the gun in the red curls at the Takisian’s temple.
Grotesque choking sounds filled the office as the nobles’ autonomic functions shut down. L’gura stared placidly at the desperate men as they flopped like hooked fish. Dark blood from Malika’s gutted body was spreading across the floor. It touched the edge of the Raiyis’s shoe. He calmly moved his foot. Durg had to admire his sangfroid.
“Is this enough virtu for you? A sufficient demonstration of my value? Or am I still just a miserable mudcrawler?”
Blaise thrust Kelly off his lap and gave the older man a boot to hurry his trajectory toward the floor. Kelly fetched up almost nose to nose with one of the dying. The bogus Tachyon let out a whimper and scuttled away.
L’gura steepled bone white fingers before his mouth. “Enough. They’re too well-bred to waste.”
“Really? They look pretty useless to me. But have it your way.” Blaise released the three men from the killing grip of his mind control. During his desperate struggles one had ripped out several of the inset jewels that adorned his cheeks. Blood flowed sluggishly from the gouges.
“Welcome to my House, Blaise brant Gisele. I think you will prove to be a most excellent addition.”
Durg released a breath he hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding. The dice had fallen well. He was home.
“Oh shit!”
The shout penetrated her nightmare-laced sleep and sent Tachyon rolling out of the narrow bunk and scuttling for cover. She was dragging some of her own with her—the light, yet warm black fabric that served as sheet, blanket, and comforter. Her eyes finally focused, and in quick, snapping images like a stuttering slide show, she took in the situation.
A chunk of wall had peeled back, and the head and thorax of a Kondikki worker wove hypnotically back and forth as the clusters of tiny eyes searched for the source of all the noise. The embedded ceiling lights reflected off the creature’s shiny greenish black chitinous exoskeleton.
Jay was backed against the fold-down table, and his wild-card trigger finger was coming to bear.
“Jay! No!” Tach screamed. And flung her blanket. It tangled about his arm and hand, there was a soft pop, and the blanket vanished. The Kondikki was, mercifully, still present.
“It belongs here,” Tach yelled.
“Not in my bedroom it doesn’t!” the ace shouted back.
“Look.” The alien, its segmented body wiggling like a child’s toy, was climbing the wall. “It’s just replacing a light.”
Jay followed her pointing finger and spotted the burned-out panel.
Legs suddenly gone weak, Jay dropped to the floor. “Shit.” He mopped sweat with the back of his hand. Tach crawled to him and wrapped her arms briefly about his shoulders, then scooted back out of reach.
“I’m sorry, I should have warned you.”
“No kidding.” He drew in a breath, wiped his mouth. “Secret alien spies, UFOs, and now giant bugs. Is it too late to go home?”
“Way, way too late.”
The door slid open, and Trips entered, paused and blinked at the huddling tableau on the floor. The private investigator pointed. Head craned back, hands propped on his hips, Mark grinned up at the Kondikki, its flexible mouth tendrils busily replacing the light.
“Aren’t they cool? There are thousands of them, way smaller than that one, down at the end of the corridor.”
Jay combed his hair with his fingers. “I didn’t need to hear that. And no, I don’t want to see ’em.”
“Where did you send the blanket, Jay?” Tach asked sternly.
He looked sheepish. “When I don’t really have time to figure out a destination, I usually just go for the scoreboard at Yankee Stadium.”
Tach stared at him in growing fury. “You were going to pop a Kondikki worker to Yankee Stadium?”
“Hey, it’s in the Bronx. They’re used to big cockroaches up there.”
“Jay, you are my ace in the hole,” Tach said, accepting Mark’s offer of a hand up. “You must be more cautious about so frivolously using your power.”
“Frivolous! There was a giant bug in the room. And I don’t know why you’re sweating it—how far away from Earth are we?”
“Several light-years, I’m not sure.”
“I’m good from L.A. to New York. Light-years … I doubt it. The bug would never have made it.”
“First, it’s not a bug. It’s a sentient creature. So the idea of your leaving it floating in space does not comfort me. Second, I think you underestimate your power. I doubt it is impeded by the normal laws of the space-time continuum.” She cocked her head to the side and considered for a second. “On the other hand, I don’t wish to test the theory.” Tach walked to her bunk and sat down. “If you are both rested enough, we must begin your instruction and training.”
“In what, and for what?” asked Jay. The set of his jaw was belligerent.
“Language, customs, most important, attitudes.”
Mark pushed Tachyon onto her back on the bunk. She let out a gasp, and the ace quickly retreated a couple of steps, holding out his hands placatingly. “Easy. How about a foot massage?”
“All right,” was the dubious reply. Mark seated himself and pulled her feet into his lap. Slipping off her shoes, he began to rub. Tach gave a tiny groan of pleasure.
“So lecture,” Jay ordered.
“Ideal, where to start?”
She chewed on her lower lip, but before she could launch in, the lights in the cabin dimmed twice, and they felt an odd prickling over their skin.
“Oh, Christ, what was that?” Jay asked, in a voice gone suddenly breathy.
Tach was as flummoxed as the detective. The phenomenon was repeated. Mark knitted his brows in a contemplative frown. “I think it’s, like, maybe the … doorbell?”
“Who the hell’d be visiting us?”
“We could, like, open the door and find out,” Mark suggested.
Jay hurried to the portal, touched the keypad, and it slid open to reveal an extremely tall, lovely woman. Well, not woman exactly. She was an upright biped, and she was a mammal as evidenced by the impressive pair of breasts curving the material of her shift, but she was eyeless, and what Tach had at first taken for hair she realized were twining sensory organs. She was also the whitest creature Tach had ever seen. Her clothing was simple in the extreme—a plain blue shift, sandals. Her only ornamentation was an elaborate leather belt both inlaid and embroidered with jewels and metal threads, supporting a gem-encrusted pouch that hung at her left side.
She smiled and said in halting English, “Wel … come to my … uh, ship. I am Nesfa.”
“Pleased to met you. Jay Ackroyd.” The detective held out his hand, then shot Tach a pained and embarrassed look. Tach was not the least bit surprised when Nesfa unerringly took the ace’s hand.
“Oh, groovy, are you part of the Network?” Mark asked. “Hi, I’m Mark Meadows.”
“Pleased to face you … no, see you … no.”
“Meet you,” Mark corrected with a happy smile.
“I learn your … language only a little from my captain.”
“Zabb?” Tach suggested.
“Yes.” She “looked” back at Mark. “We are Network, but very … new.”
“You just joined?” Jay amplified.
“Yes. We Viand search for new … places …
to live. We … buy ship.”
“But you don’t know how to operate her?” Tach asked.
“No,” Nesfa replied.
“Typical,” Tach said bitterly.
“I come only to say … hello. No to bother. Ship is … as yours.”
She smiled again, and it was so warm and pretty that the travelers were beginning to forget the lack of eyes. Of course they’d all had practice. Before its destruction they’d all drunk at the Crystal Palace and been served by the eyeless bartender, Sascha.
“Bye-bye,” she said, and left.
“Boy, we gotta get out more,” Jay gusted. “What a doll.” Mark and Tach exchanged glances and burst out laughing. “What? What is it?”
“What an ambassador you’d make,” Mark said.
“But only if the aliens are all women,” Tach added. Jay was continuing to stare at the closed door. “Jay, you can pursue your gonads’ imperative at a later time. We must resume.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Tach must have looked lost, because Mark prompted her. “You were gonna talk about the customs in the Houses.”
“Oh yes. Just quick background. There are seven great Houses. The Ilkazam, the Vayawand, the Alaa, the Ss’ang, the Tandeh, the Jeban, and the Rodaleh. Then fifteen or so modest Houses, and finally a few tiny holdings. About thirty total, though the numbers can fluctuate due to war or treaty.
“Once you pass through the walls of my family compound—or any compound, for that matter—you will be living between the covers of a flamboyant novel. While it is true that we rule the mind blind—sometimes with a ferocity that’s appalling—we are also the primary consumers of the luxuries and services produced by the Tarhiji. We’re their primary source of entertainment too. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons we strut through life with the bombastic quality of performers in an Italian opera.” Tachyon frowned and considered the human’s nondescript face. “In order to succeed in Takisian society, it is essential that you possess élan. In your case, Jay, it is unfortunate that you look so ordinary, but your smart mouth will offset that liability.”
“Gee, sorry, if I’d known, I’d have had a nose job.”
Tach shot back. “It would require an entire body sculpt.”
“Walked right into it,” groused Jay.
“Mark carries a similar burden, he’s not at all handsome, but his great height will make him unique—assuming they don’t view him as a freak and deformed.”
“This is kind of disturbing. Is your entire society this shallow?” asked Mark.
It stung, and a flush blossomed in her cheeks, but there was enough truth in the accusation and enough innate honesty in Tachyon to give her pause. She sighed. “Yes, and no. Yes, because your breeding is in your face and your form, and we do breed for beauty. No, because the Takisians can be very astute and see past mere appearances.” Tach stopped, considered. “But that’s an oversimplification too. You see, on Takis appearances are everything. A false appearance of power, of virtu, can make a man a king as easily as a true one.”
“That’s not astute, that’s gullible,” said Jay.
“No, cautious,” Tach corrected. “The man who struts and preens may be a bombastic buffoon, or he may be every bit as dangerous and powerful as he claims. You don’t attack until you’re certain. That’s why you must hide your powers, Jay, but at the same time flaunt them. Drop mysterious hints about the nature of those powers, leave the impression that they are awesome, terrifying, and probably mental in nature.”
“Trips may be able to pull that off. He can reveal a few of his friends and even suggest that there are a lot more waiting in the wings, but that’s going to do fuck-all for me. They’ll have my head open in a second, and then they’ll know I’m no mind-powered ace.”
“Are you listening to me?” snapped Tach. “They won’t risk that until they are certain of your powers, and your allies.”
“So far as I can tell, our only allies are sitting in this room.”
“As recent as five years ago my uncle Taj was still loyal to my line. There may be others.”
Jay continued to argue. “And just how will you prove that you are who you say you are?”
“Open my mind.”
“Great,” said Jay bitterly. “That’s really hiding the football.”
“Jay, if I suddenly started telling you my life story—as quickly as I could, and in no logical order—how much would you actually absorb?” The ace considered that, tugging on a shaggy bit of hair that was just brushing his collar. “Memory, in both humans and Takisians, is laid down in chemical codes on various synapses with a great deal of repetition, and no particular order.” She swiveled to face Mark. “Do you remember when I had to force open Rabdan’s mind?” Mark shuddered. “I had to peel his mind layer by layer, laying bare the memories, and destroying his mind in the process. And this wasn’t accomplished in a minute.”
“It took you seven hours,” said Mark. “And you were almost unconscious by the end.”
“So when you read a mind, what are you getting?” asked Jay.
“First, just the surface thoughts, and it’s very confused, a constant running babble. We’re trained to break it out, enforce grammatical order so it’s understandable. Deeper memories are harder, you have to dig a little. It’s like searching through an encyclopedia for the proper reference. Let’s say I’m searching your mind to determine how you cowed Digger Downs. I might have to turn over a whole series of buried memories—stealing a dime from the little girl in first grade, striking out with your date at the senior prom—”
“Hey!” Jay exploded. Mark chuckled.
“So telepathy is not as simple as it seems. And it becomes more difficult when you’re dealing with a trained mentat. They’ll have alarms to warn them of interlopers, and if they’re powerful enough, traps to destroy the weak or unwary.”
“Zabb twigged to you pretty fast,” said Mark.
“That’s because he knows me very well. There is a signature, a taste, if you will, to each mind. Each is unique.”
“So old friends or close relations will believe you instantly,” said Jay.
“And if by some dismal chance none of those happy few remain, I’ll have to convince related strangers with a dazzling display of knowledge that no impostor could possibly possess.”
“And then?” asked Jay.
“And then we find Blaise and recover my body.”
“It sounds so simple,” Mark said.
“It won’t be,” said Jay. “How the hell do we find two people when they have an entire planet to hide in?”
Trips contemplated his dealings with Blaise—dealings that had left one woman dead and almost cost Mark his daughter. He sighed and said, “If Blaise is on Takis, I’m sure he’s, like, made his presence felt.”
Chapter Twelve
BACK HOME IN OKLAHOMA they’d had a cat. A lanky orange critter with a crooked tail—legacy of a fight with a neighbor’s Labrador—and haunted, feral gold eyes. For six years it had slunk about the house, grabbing at food when it was set before it, but otherwise ignored and despised. That was Kelly’s status in House Vayawand.
Sometimes he wondered if Takisians possessed invisibility as well as telepathy. He had certainly become transparent. A few times he’d forced the issue—placed himself like a small stone in the midst of a rushing stream, greeted someone as they broke and eddied past. But he’d gotten this look, which sent him folding in on himself like the leaf of a touch-me-not, and been whirled away by the rushing currents of people. He then lowered his sights. Obviously the lords and ladies of House Vayawand thought he had cooties. Okay, he’d try servants. It made no difference. Even the servants were snotty.
So here he was sliding through the door of a … mess hall? family cafeteria?… ready to make another snatch-and-run food raid. He picked an empty table near the door to the kitchens. It was noisy with servants hurrying past, and smoky each time the doors swung open. It was not elegant dining. Which was why it was de
serted. No self-respecting Takisian would sit in such an inferior position.
Only a very inferior bogus Takisian, thought Kelly sadly as a plate of soup was slid very carefully and very quietly under his nose.
The servants might look at him as if he were dirt, but their behavior was always excruciatingly polite. Because he had the face—borrowed though it was. He might be an impostor, but the face bestowed power and an aura of danger. Not that there was a lot of physical difference between the mind-blind majority of the planet and their telepathic overlords. They were all fair—the darkest hair color Kelly’d seen was a sort of mink brown—on the small side, but the Tarhiji tended to plumpness, whereas the carefully inbred psi lords possessed a refinement, and an almost tooth-aching beauty, which combined with their ancient eyes into a terrifying presence. And each time those eyes were turned on Kelly, he felt as if his bones had been replaced with ice.
I share so much with you, Kelly cried inwardly to the bowed head of the young man who served him. I’m as terrified of them as you are. Talk to me!
And once again his random ability to tap into the telepathic gift that lay dormant—but dangerous—in his borrowed mind stirred to life. The young man heard Kelly’s thoughts and jumped like a frog on an electric wire. The pale brown eyes fluttered nervously up to meet Kelly’s gaze. The servant placed his hands briefly over his ears and shook his head.
“But why?” asked Kelly aloud.
It was an effort to say the words, but the young man forced them out in a grating whisper. “You are trouble. Great trouble.”
He was gone, swallowed up by the clatter and steam of the kitchen.
“No, I’m in trouble. Big trouble,” said Kelly to the empty space left by the waiter’s precipitous retreat. With a sigh he lifted his spoon and began to eat.
There was an eddy of movement at the main door. Four guards, their bodies forming a protective square, sailed into the room. At their center, nestled like a precious jewel in a living setting, walked a lavishly overdressed Takisian. This one Kelly recognized—Ke’elaa, head of Vayawand security. Kelly couldn’t pull his gaze away from the martial parade. In that strange overworld where his uncontrollable telepathy periodically carried him, Kelly perceived Takisian thoughts as dancing rainbow colors. Now there was a swirling black storm eating at the edges of those oblivious colors. Kelly shook his head, trying to clear the weird feeling.
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