Moro's Price

by M. Crane Hana

  “Wake up, Knifehound,” Val ordered. Moro’s black eyes snapped open, calm and accepting. “Now come for me,” said Val, stepping backward away from the table.

  Out of Val’s personal range, the hairs sparked all at once, a rush of gold stars glittering on Moro’s chest, abdomen, and cock. The pain hit, and Moro wailed, spurting his release in a six-foot-long arc. Knees still up, he fell backward on his straining wrists. When some of Moro’s newly infected seed spattered Val, the gold sparks ignited against his skin, just as intense as they’d been in his teenage experiments. Heat and pain, swiftly over, not even scorching his body hairs. Indistinct welts showed on his brown skin, fading even as he watched. A few faint stars still glimmered in the room, stray material on its fiery way back to Cama.

  She remained silent within Val’s mind.

  Val gathered the ice-water bowl and towel and went to Moro.

  He’d expected fury. It was a nasty trick on a lover not expecting it, certainly one as deep into trance as Moro had gone.

  But Moro smiled softly up at him. “That was—interesting.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “You knew what I needed.”

  “Feel better?” The same heat-kisses pinked Moro’s skin. Val doused them with cool water, being as gentle as possible. Moro’s hard fingers crept over Val’s as they removed the tiny steel clip from Moro’s cock.

  “That will sting awhile,” Moro said. “I like it. It will remind me of you when I’m in front of that reporter. But what about you?”

  “Me?” Val pretended to ignore his unsatisfied erection. “I’ll muddle along somehow.”

  Moro laughed. “That poor little thing won’t get anywhere with you in charge.” Then he lunged, dragging Val into the pillows, and Val forgot war, fire, Cama, and all shame as Moro’s mouth closed over him.

  Forty-Five

  “THIS IS NOT a joke!” Sardis snapped into the com. “I am Lyton Sardis. I have evidence Mark David Moore and Dennis Vance are involved in terrorist activity against the Camalian Embassy. The West Stratton police are holding Vance right now, and Transportation has Moore in custody. Call them!”

  Zarin Basrali sat very straight in her seat opposite Terise Volker as Lyton Sardis fought his way through levels of law-enforcement indifference. Dr. Volker appeared engrossed in the text on her reader scroll, but a little smile played across her lips.

  Basrali only knew of Dr. Volker from hastily hushed company gossip. Enough to guess she would not balk at direct violence toward Camalians.

  “Oh really?” asked Sardis in a tone of pure poison aimed at whoever stalled on the other end of the com. “Consider this. If there is a nuclear weapon concealed directly under the Camalian Embassy, it will probably destroy far more than the embassy, not to mention the radiation fallout you’ll deal with later. Your precious university core is only five miles north! I’ve already called the premier. Do you want me to call him about your department again?”

  Score one for Sardis, Basrali thought. Apparently not even this megalomaniac liked the thought of dirty bombs in his neighborhood.

  Basrali wondered if Sardis had encouraged the terrorists before betraying them. Sardis and Volker were both dressed as medics. Their hover transport was not the usual luxurious Rio Sardis limo, but an anonymous, boxy vehicle packed with odd medical gear and supplies.

  “It’s going on ten, Lyton,” said Terise Volker when Sardis disconnected. “Didn’t Vance say the bomb was set for noon? And shouldn’t we be heading away from the blast zone?”

  “Not while Moro is at the embassy,” said Lyton from the front passenger seat, not turning around.

  “The Sonta are coming for him too,” said Terise.

  “We’ll be gone before they get here,” said Sardis. “Let the Camalians argue with the Ksala!”

  “What if he’s dead? What if he’s already been turned into a plague carrier by that godless demon?” Terise asked.

  “Moro dead would be unfortunate. Moro alive and Camalian won’t matter. In fact, he may even help our plans. A Camalian connection could be useful.”

  “Terra Prima will only go so far to defend you, Lyton. And you rely on my skill for your plan to succeed.”

  Sardis turned to face his ex-wife. He pulled the scroll out of her hands. “Terise, look at me while you’re threatening me. Are you threatening me?”

  Dr. Volker looked back at him without blinking. “I’m warning you, Lyton. Pick an alliance with the Commonwealth or an alliance with Terra Prima. You can’t have both.”

  Sardis didn’t answer but dropped the scroll in her lap. He turned and reached for the com-handset again and resumed yelling at more Cedar-Saba police.

  Aware of Volker’s gaze, Basrali kept herself from activating or even touching the platinum bracelet, unsure whether to curse Bill or pray he knew what he was doing.

  “THIS IS VILAM Volker Sardis,” said Bill into his own com back at the Rio Sardis headquarters. “Yes, Sera Rowe, that Sardis. I understand you fulfilled an automatic bequest on behalf of Sero Michol Kott last night? One group-bond was exempt from the buyout clause. I would like to engage the services of Rowe Vermilion Singh in an investigation relating to that bond. It matches a high-value asset held by a subsidiary of Rio Sardis. Yes. I do have many excellent Rio Sardis lawyers at my disposal. I would prefer an outside firm, as this information could be potentially damaging to my company’s credibility. Yes, this is a secure line, Sera Rowe. To be frank, I do not trust my father’s lawyers. Right now Rio Sardis’s reputation matters less to me than the safety of Cedar itself.”

  A few minutes later Bill finished transmitting a group of files to a small but well-connected law firm. He sat back in his office chair, aware he’d just committed to a chess match against the two brilliant, unstable people who’d spawned him.

  He’d lied to Sera Rowe. True, the future of a world was at stake. But more importantly, so was his company.

  AT FIVE MINUTES after ten, police investigators discovered three men in Public Works uniforms three hundred feet inside a service tunnel under the university district. The workers towed an empty hover sled. Their badges and work history passed cursory inspection.

  One of the five policemen scanned for radiation indicators, including some not seen on Cedar for two thousand years.

  The scanner pinged politely, showing the workers clean. On the last scan of the sled, however, its readouts jumped.

  “What’s that?” asked another investigator.

  “Cesium, cobalt, and strontium,” said the first. “Higher than the background should be. Gentlemen, you need to come with us for emergency cleanup. What were you doing down there on a Sunday morning?”

  “Fuck this,” said one of the workers, spraying a pulse rifle into the insufficiently paranoid police squad.

  As the three men ran for the tunnel entrance, the shooter yelled, “Moore said nothing about it leaking! I’m not losing my balls for a Terra Prima stunt!”

  They ran headlong into an electrified net and a bigger, far more skeptical group of Cedar-Saba’s antiterrorist enforcers.

  A few minutes later, a hazardous waste removal team in full radiation-blocking gear took another sled into the tunnels.

  The authorities engaged a full media blackout of the situation.

  Forty-Six

  DELJOU SHANNON AND a Channel 98 recording crew pulled up to the white stone portico of the Camalian Embassy.

  “Should we be wearing masks, or should they?” muttered her holo technician. “And why is every window and door blocked by steel?”

  “Don’t kiss anyone and you should be fine,” said Shannon, hoping she looked more pulled together than she felt after only a few hours of sleep. The Kott medic had contacted her with a story only a fool would ignore: “Bring a news crew to the Camalian Embassy this morning if you want to know the truth behind Moro Dalgleish’s illegal slavery and Lyton Sardis’s hunt for Sonta artifacts.” Shannon had her principles, true. One of them was never letting someone el
se scoop a winning story. Fortunately the Channel 98 lawyers had given her approval, especially after talking to some law firm down in Vaclav.

  Someone, possibly from inside, was doing their best to embarrass Rio Sardis and its patriarch. Shannon itched to be part of it but reminded herself to stay focused.

  Segmented steel barriers lifted away from the embassy entrance, revealing it already open. Four unmasked figures walked into the sunlight. Slightly ahead was the medic Hegen, unshielded among Camalians. The dark and intimidating Ambassador Antonin now wore Camalian amber military garb. Beside her walked a short young man with lighter-brown skin and pale-gold hair, himself an amber icon in layered robes marred only by a technician’s bulky utility belt. And beside him on the left—

  Moro Dalgleish was taller, older, and more muscled than the boyish image Sardis had broadcast the night before.

  Of course, thought Shannon, the poor man’s been a gladiator for years. She blessed her own brown skin for hiding what must be a sudden blush as she remembered the images and holos she’d researched after Sardis’s interesting reactions.

  The fighter called the Diamond had radiated sex appeal, the more compelling for his obvious reluctance. Though Shannon liked her lovers willing, she saw why he’d drawn sold-out crowds and one of the highest fighting fees in the League.

  To merely look was to be stirred, regardless of decency and preferences. To possess just once, ran the legend, was to hunger ever after. No wonder Lyton Sardis dared Terra Prima and shadowy kidnappers alike! The romantic gossip swirling through Cedar-Saba was dizzy with speculation and sightings. No one had guessed a Camalian connection.

  Now Moro Dalgleish was plainly dressed in clothes covering all but his face and hands, his glossy black hair pulled back in a segmented tail by a series of steel clips. Without theatrical cosmetics and black collar, he was almost unrecognizable as the legendary gladiator. The eyes were the same, though: huge and darkly shining under straight black brows. Shannon knew rich women who would have mortgaged ancestral Buyout homes for such long, sooty lashes.

  Then Shannon blinked, knowing the significance of the clips. Married? To a Camalian? She finally recognized both the younger man and his firm grip on Dalgleish’s left hand. Definitely married, and out of Sardis’s reach forever.

  “Sera Shannon,” said Dalgleish in a smooth, rich baritone with a hint of frontier drawl. “I’m glad you consented to this interview.” He held out his free hand.

  She took it fearlessly in a firm clasp. “Usually my line, Sero Dalgleish. You’re absolutely clear you want this done on a live feed? I can record and edit the rough cuts later.” This close and completely dressed, he was still breathtaking.

  His bare skin was doing interesting things to her hands. She gracefully pulled away, and he seemed relieved to give up contact.

  Dear God, thought Shannon, half the planet, maybe half the League knows what this man looks like naked and spending. Or will, after I finish interviewing him. She knew he knew it.

  He bore it like a king, reserved but unashamed.

  “You won’t have time to edit, Sera Shannon,” he said, glancing briefly upward. “Start it here, now. And…and bear with me, please. My voice may go again. It’s only been repaired for a few hours.”

  The Diamond had stammered badly, she remembered, one reason for his glowering silences in the arena.

  She waved her technicians into place and then faced the recorders. “This is Deljou Shannon of Channel 98. We are live in front of the Camalian Embassy in Cedar-Saba with Dr. Adam Hegen, formerly bonded to Kott Combat Incorporated. Joining him are the Camalian Ambassador Alys Antonin, her son Valier Antonin, and Moro Dalgleish, formerly a League bonder and now a Camalian citizen. Viewer warning: you are about to hear Sero Dalgleish’s uncensored answer to a statement made last night by Lyton Sardis, the director of Rio Sardis. Sero Dalgleish, if you are ready?”

  Dalgleish nodded, adding in his slow, strong voice, “Yes, I’m ready.” He looked toward the recorders. His hand slipped from the Camalian prince’s grip as he stepped forward. “Last night Lyton Sardis gave you a press conference in which he said two true things and all manner of lies.

  “My name is Moro Dalgleish. Lyton Sardis took me off a world called Ventana the day after I turned eighteen. But I was never his willing lover. He raped me and kept me as a slave for a year, before framing me for murder and selling me to Kott.”

  “HE WHAT?” LYTON Sardis roared from the transport’s front passenger seat. “A live interview with Shannon on Channel 98? Now?”

  Zarin Basrali remembered the time she’d seen a tornado: a beautiful, twisting silver funnel curled down from a storm with the roar of a hundred spaceship engines. It wiped away half a city block in seconds. She’d been five years old, standing mesmerized on a crèche rooftop until a caretaker found her and hauled her down to the basement a hundred feet below ground.

  Watching Lyton Sardis rant was like watching the tornado and the shattering buildings all at once.

  “Married?” Lyton asked the unlucky soul on the other end of the com. “He married a Camalian? Wait. That Camalian?” He broke off, laughing. “No, no, it’s good. Shut up and get the ship ready.”

  Zarin kept her fingers from fidgeting with Bill’s bracelet, but only just.

  “Lyton, we need to go now,” said Terise, her gaze still tracking developments on her reader scroll. “Your friend the premier is moving against you, I think. I said revaluing that bond was a stupid mistake.”

  The man turned back in his seat, glaring at Terise. “Are we in range?”

  Low, gracious buildings, cedar groves, and parklands flashed by as the diplomatic district drew near.

  “Almost. Not enough for full control, since he’s uncollared at the moment,” said Terise.

  “Can you drop him without killing him?” asked Sardis.

  Terise shrugged. “They’ll just haul him back inside the embassy.”

  “The hell they will,” said Sardis, grinning. “Drop him as soon as we’re in range.”

  He reached for something on the seat beside him. “We’re netting two fish for the price of one.”

  “YOU DIDN’T KNOW who Valier was?” Shannon asked.

  “I didn’t even know he was Camalian at first. He convinced me not to jump and to flee north with him on a float-cycle someone—I thought Kott—had left on the roof. Valier said he could offer me Cama’s Touch. A fast death, or freedom as a Camalian citizen.” Dalgleish smiled, turning to hold out his hand to the Camalian prince. Valier took it, nestling into Dalgleish’s one-armed embrace. The prince looked stern, proud, and slightly fragile, as if he might shatter at any moment. Real tears streamed freely from his golden eyes.

  “I wanted only the escape of death, Sera Shannon,” said Dalgleish. “Not revenge against Sardis or the people who made my life hell as a fighting slave. I never expected to see another sunrise. These few hours have been a gift to me. I freely choose to give them up, and Valier, in the name of our common humanity. You have heard of the Sonta ships coming to Cedar?”

  Shannon wondered if this was the surprise Hegen had hinted at. “The premier says it’s a diplomatic visit and part of a good-faith cleaning operation, but sources close to the council say it might be linked to theft of Sonta artifacts—” She paused, barely aware of her unprofessional lapse, struck by one thought.

  “They’re probably coming for me,” said Moro Dalgleish. “I’m half-Sonta on my mother’s side.”

  BASRALI WATCHED AS Lyton Sardis tugged on a brown medic’s cap blazoned with the turquoise-and-white logo and name of Kino Hospital. Kino, she recalled, had separate facilities for the Camalians who couldn’t be treated by their own doctors.

  “Sera Basrali?” he asked, looking back at her under the hat brim. “Activate the new registration uplink now.” He fastened on the cap’s brown fabric face shield, covering his nose and mouth.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, hands moving over her own portable screen. In a few seconds, the false am
bulance broadcast the spoofed registration of a Kino vehicle currently offline for maintenance in a West Stratton garage.

  Forty-Seven

  “IMPOSSIBLE!” ONE OF Shannon’s technicians burst out.

  She waved him silent. “Is it, Sero Dalgleish?”

  Dalgleish shrugged. “I’ve never seen a Sonta. Dr. Hegen, another Ventana refugee, says he attended my mother, Anya Dalgleish, during a two-year pregnancy, and she claimed she was Sonta. She died just after I was born, but not before she herself removed the one obviously nonhuman part of me, the pointed tips of my ears.” He turned his head for the recorder so the image focused on his scarred ears.

  “A Ventana man named Levi Halloran had a grudge against my parents, going back to his attempted assault on Anya. Halloran and Lyton Sardis conspired, years later, to overthrow Ventana.”

  “All to get you,” Shannon said flatly. “One man? Why?”

  “He wasn’t interested in me at all until he knew I was Sonta. He’s been hunting Sonta technology. He thinks I may be some sort of key to unlocking an unknown Sonta installation. I suspect there is a connection between Lyton’s goals and Terra Prima’s fear of nonhuman sentient races in the galaxy. None of it matters now,” Dalgleish finished, pushing a reluctant Valier away.

  “The Aksenna Sonta are coming here,” said Dalgleish. “My mother’s people. That scared some of the other Sonta so much they warned the Camalians to leave the Cedar System last night. I don’t know if the Sonta will welcome me as kin or dissect me.”

  “The Camalians are still here,” Shannon said.

  Valier gave her a mocking salute. “Whether you like us or not, we’re still human,” said the prince. “We took a vote. We’re staying.”