To Guard Against the Dark

by Julie E. Czerneda

  More shouts. Dewley resisted the shoulders’ urge to turn around and watch. “Yes, yes.”

  Multijointed fingers made quick work of tapping the waxy patch to the skin of Dewley’s head. The rest of its parts snickered but held their grip so the Assembler could walk briskly through the exit.

  Unchallenged.

  But as Dewley stepped on the moving ramp to the station’s interior, a slim figure left a shadow to follow.

  Plexis Supermarket, as befitted a shopping and entertainment destination of such magnitude, had hundreds of lodgings for those inclined to linger—or unable to recall their parking space. The quality improved spinward, which was why this meeting place was in the opposite direction, the Best Slumber Inn being popular with patrons of some standards, yet stingy with their credits.

  Dewley spotted Sept Gryba in the octagonal lobby, coiled near the free sombay dispenser, a matched pair of fancy carryalls at sept’s feet. He hurried over. “I’m here.”

  “Were you followed?”

  “Were you, Waste Of Time?”

  This time the elderly Omacron did not curl away. “Mind your manners, Split. I’m your better.”

  Wasn’t true, but Dewley couldn’t help but be impressed by the other’s uncharacteristically firm voice. That, and sept’s clothes. Gryba, far from attempting to avoid attention, had elected to wear a brilliant red flowing cloak over a glittering flexible tabard proclaiming sept to be the Galactic Mysterioso.

  “We’re late. Come along,” Gryba ordered, adding a brusque, “You’re my servant. Bring the bags. And be careful!”

  Dewley, about to grab the matched set of luggage, set his hands around the grips with care. The left, anyway. The right wavered before reluctantly taking hold.

  “Wait. Take these.” Gryba began tucking slips of shiny plas into every pocket of Dewley’s jacket.

  The Assembler twisted and hissed. “What these? What!?”

  “Free passes to my show. Hand one to any gold tag we pass. Only gold, mind you.”

  One-minds went mad, Dewley reminded himself. “Why?”

  “To make us invisible. No more questions. This part of the plan is my doing, mine to achieve. If you get in my way, I’ve this.” The cloak twitched aside to show the hilt of a needler.

  Nasty Omacron, Dewley thought with an inner shiver. Nasty needler, doubtless set to spray and catch all its bits. Good partner for the First.

  Good partner for success.

  Not that sept was overly observant. The Assembler lifted the bags. “Not enough hands.”

  Gryba went another color, then sighed. “I’ll carry one.”

  The right hand moved first, releasing its burden.

  Invisible they were, Dewley discovered. It was a trick, but a wonderful one. He’d only to wave a pass at anyone who looked their way and they’d flinch aside. Hardly promising for the Omacron’s show, but since there wouldn’t be one?

  The Assembler began to enjoy himself.

  “They’ve put the sign up,” Dewley noted with a sense of the rightness of things. Using the reconstruction crew as cover had entailed a distressing amount of actual work, but he’d gained the access necessary to set Choiola’s trap. What a treat to have the crew finish before they destroyed the Claws & Jaws once and for all.

  Others were at the restaurant’s entrance, their attention on the door and the being blocking their entry, not the sign. Typical grandies, thinking posted dates didn’t apply to them.

  With surprising strength for sept’s age, the Galactic Mysterioso pushed Dewley into the nearest mass of plants and slithered in after him, bag tight to a curl of abdomen.

  The Assembler kept together, barely. What appeared lush and groomed from the outside wasn’t in here. Rotting vegetation squished underfoot, dead sticks poked at him, and everywhere, little red eyes appeared.

  Then disappeared.

  “The restaurant isn’t allowing beings to enter.”

  Dewley subvocalized his opinion of his companion. The rest of him offered their own versions, each guaranteed to get them needler-sprayed had they been heard. However satisfying, this didn’t get him out of the rot. “The opening is in eight days,” the Assembler whispered.

  “I know that, you revolting bag of bits. The Brill’s cook was to offer the Galactic Mysterioso an advance tour of her kitchen. A tour we can’t take while there’s a commotion at the door. They could have already called security. Is there another way in?”

  Considering what the left hand gripped, the Assembler was reassured the Omacron had had a plan. Of sorts. “Follow me.”

  It being impossible to exit the planter without being noticed, or smelled—the rot clinging to their footwear—Dewley jumped out waving a handful of show passes. Those around obligingly looked away.

  His turn to lead. His turn to be important.

  A slim figure lingered a moment near a teashop window.

  Then followed.

  The Assembler instructed the Galactic Mysterioso to leave sept’s cloak and tabard behind a waste canister, to be retrieved on their way out.

  “Why?” sept demanded, shivering and naked. Sept’s exposed flesh was an unappealing beige, part scaled, part squishy skin. A weak thing. Stupid waste of time.

  With a needler tucked in a belt. Trying not to stare at that, Dewley explained. “Eyes watch us. Everywhere on Plexis. Less here,” grudgingly, but those garish colors would catch the attention of the most jaded ocular watching the screens. “Leave what we don’t need.”

  Gryba folded over one case, doing something to open then close it. Sept straightened, a small metal orb in one hand, then pretended to drop it.

  The right foot tried to run. The left held firm, but a wrist let go, heading for an exit.

  “It can’t hurt you, fool,” Gryba told him with scorn. Holding up the orb, sept regarded it with pleasure, by the flare of yellow green under sept’s skin. Or lust.

  All the same to the Assembler. “Not a game,” Dewley hissed, retrieving the wrist.

  “Oh, but it is. The best of games. That’s why our leader’s coming for the show.”

  Dewley pulled out a pass, regarding it dubiously. “This?”

  “No, fool. The show. The moment we reveal ourselves and our glorious purpose. She wouldn’t miss it.”

  Oh, he would, if he could. Quiet was better. Sneaky was best. Traits he’d admired in Omacron, but this sept wasn’t normal. Or, scary thought, Gryba was normal, and all of sept’s kind were playing their own game.

  Games. Shows. He did not approve. His approval wasn’t required, of course, but Dewley glared at the Omacron. “This does waste time.”

  “True. Lead the way.”

  The pair entered the tunnel. Servos rumbled by in both directions, messengers zoomed overhead, and the Omacron cried out when a servofreighter brushed by, too close.

  Horrified, the Assembler dared grab the other and give sept a shake. “No. Nothing loud,” he scolded in a strained whisper. “In here, the machines block us from vids, their noises cover our steps. Not shouts.”

  “Don’t touch me,” as the Omacron jerked septself free. “Mindless mechanicals.” But the words were properly quiet.

  His importance restored, for now, the Assembler picked a servo towing a tall stack of crates, then showed his companion how to walk close behind it. They’d entered not far from the belly of the Claws & Jaws. Soon—

  Gryba was gone.

  The Assembler looked around frantically, then left the cover of the servo and rushed to the side, pressing himself against the curved wall. There was the usual ledge for waste canisters and waiting deliveries behind.

  Gryba was there. At least sept was hiding behind a canister. But why? This was, Dewley thought anxiously, not the Claws & Jaws, but the nearby Turrned Missionary. Turrneds were to be avoided. They had weird eyes and would, if allowed close,
pat his parts with their soft hands as if they could tell exactly who he was made of—a shoulder argued about the food, and that was the only plus—

  The Omacron waved.

  Reluctantly, Dewley eased his way to sept’s curled side. Before he could chastise the other for failing—again—to follow his lead, a hand raised, a digit pointing.

  Someone else, coming down the tunnel.

  Gryba had been followed, Dewley thought. Which wasn’t a good thing, he realized, his triumph at the other’s failings turning to dismay. What were they to do?

  Hum?

  For that’s what the Omacron was doing. Humming. A quiet little sound that nonetheless itched along Dewley’s many parts and wasn’t, he decided, a nice hum at all.

  Though too far to hear over the machine noise, the figure slowed, shaking their head as if pained.

  More humming.

  The figure moved to their side of the tunnel, leaned against the wall. Dewley could see her now. Human. Common size and shape. Her clothes proclaimed her as one of Plexis’ customer-assistants. The stunner now out in her hand, wavering as she tried to aim it at them, suggested otherwise.

  More humming. Annoying, that itch, but Dewley didn’t dare complain, didn’t dare move, for the Omacron was doing something.

  The stunner fell. She slid down the wall, helpless.

  Only then did Gryba move, sept’s walk more like a dance, torso curling from side to side, sept’s eyes wide open to expose that ominous black ring.

  Humming.

  The Assembler followed at a distance, not because he wanted anything to do with this, but he had to know, didn’t he, what was happening.

  What an Omacron could do.

  When Dewley reached the Human, he saw blood streaming from her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, which wasn’t so bad—

  Until the brain followed, oozing out like melted jelly.

  The humming stopped. The Assembler gasped with relief, the itch ended. “What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing I didn’t enjoy.” At Gryba’s chuckle, Dewley came close to fragmenting in terror. Then, “Search the body, but don’t remove anything. I want to know who tries to spy on us.”

  Empty pockets. Her com must be an implant. Dewley glanced at the ruined head. Not touching that. His hands resumed running themselves over the body, quickly finding what was pinned to the inside of the short, brain-soaked jacket. “Plexis security,” the Assembler announced, showing the badge.

  “Bah. Following you, no doubt. Your face is known.”

  Dewley, hearing his doom in that, cowered by the corpse. “I belong to the group,” he protested. “I will stay hidden. You need me.” And hoped the Omacron remembered who was guiding sept to their targets as he saw red eyes under the nearest canister, vermin lined up for the feast.

  “You could be a useful distraction, should I require one.”

  “I could,” Dewley agreed glumly.

  “Come. I want to be done and out of here.”

  They made their way to the Claws & Jaws without further incident. The Assembler hurried past the service corridor to the restaurant, though the right foot was tempted to run inside and seek help.

  But it was too late for that. Dewley stopped where an innocuous bulge in the tunnel wall made a shadow. Without waiting for orders, he pried off the piece he’d cut while working, exposing ordinary plumbing.

  And something else: a new connection, with a plain pump and valve, leading to an upright funnel with a lid. Nothing unusual, nothing to trigger sensors or alarms. The Assembler removed the lid, his fingers clumsy with a growing excitement. After all, this would be the start of their success.

  “Move aside.” Gryba cracked sept’s metal orb like an egg, pouring its contents into the funnel, waiting while Dewley replaced the lid.

  “That’s it?” the Assembler asked, rather disappointed and having forgotten, for now, his dread of the Omacron. Explosions, now. He preferred explosions.

  “Appearance deceives. What is here will spread, one to another to the rest. There will be no escaping it.”

  “And the Humans? You need my help.” That being their next task, Dewley wanted to be sure. Needed, urgently, reassurance his group was ascending, or his bits would scatter for good and then where would he be? A head, in a tunnel? “We need success!”

  The Omacron must have understood for sept paused to consider him, then said carefully, “The First has promised. Yours will be the only such shape in the Trade Pact. To you will belong what now is Human. But we’ve work to do, much work, before Choiola arrives.”

  “Yes. Yes!” They would seed each of the surprises he’d placed throughout Plexis. He’d placed many many surprises, hidden in all the places, including many only bits could reach. His bits! First, the Claws & Jaws.

  Then, the show. Dewley grasped the reference now. Their surprises would open all at once and release what the Omacron had brought into the “airweshare.”

  The show would start when the one-minds began to fall.

  “Why not all?” the Assembler asked with new eagerness as they made their way back along the tunnel, this time clinging to the back of a wide servocarrier.

  “What we would do requires testing.” The Omacron’s skin flushed yellow green as they passed the corpse. Red-eyed vermin paused to stare.

  The Poison Makers. Those who knew the Omacron—what they were—called them that. They were rumored to test their concoctions on themselves, their own worlds. Poison and guile were their weapons of choice, though they themselves were deadly. He’d seen it, Dewley had, and knew himself fortunate above all other Assemblers to grab hold and belong to sept’s group.

  “Plexis is past due for catastrophe,” Gryba whispered cheerfully. “Whatever they suspect, they will believe this one is natural. We will have severed the head of the Consortium—who knows, they may be blamed for what comes next! The First will continue unopposed. The Trade Pact will end in agony.”

  The Assembler could hardly stay together for joy.

  Chapter 19

  A STREAK OF GREASE across her forehead, engine parts strewn about her where she sat cross-legged on the floor, Captain Usuki Erin radiated delight. “I’ve been wanting to do this since getting the ship,” she confessed.

  “Take the engine apart in subspace?” Morgan chuckled. He measured the remaining width of an ignitor tip, then tossed it in the bin with the other rejects. “Can’t say it was one of my ambitions.”

  “You know what I mean.” Her fingers didn’t stop their busy, efficient motions. Dismantle and clean, determine what remained in good order, was the starting point. They’d leave undisturbed what kept them in subspace, moving translight, until the time came to exit the bubble.

  “Hand me that.” Once he’d passed her the tool, she applied it to the next assembly. “Thel refused to let me do a thorough stripdown.” A grin flashed. “Something about putting a hole in her precious shipcity if I made a mistake.”

  “There’s that.” Though he didn’t see a mistake being likely. As he’d suspected from the start, Erin proved equal to any ship’s engineer he’d worked with—and superior to most—making Morgan curious. “You know you could write your own ticket, doing this.”

  “Could, yeah.” An offhand shrug. “Turns out I don’t get along with know-nothing captains.” She shot him a glance. “You’re different.”

  Morgan smiled. “High praise.”

  She laughed, stretching for another part. “Don’t let it go to your head. Haven’t seen you take the controls yet. Could be,” she teased, “you’re a lousy pilot.”

  “Could be,” he agreed equably, getting back to work.

  The rest of that day they took breaks in turn, Morgan insisting. Noska and Terk traded off on the bridge, not that there was anything to do but watch coms, Finelle keeping watch in the medbay. Rael slept.

  Best e
stimate on the refit, no surprises? A standard day and a half. Make that two. There were always surprises. Toward the end, they’d be catching naps in the engine room.

  Two and a half days to Plexis.

  Double that to Snosbor IV.

  The Wayfarer’s aged autopilot could accept trip tapes with a predetermined course had it not been, in her captain’s words, gunked up. Chiseling out the now-hard remains of what had been Noska’s breakfast hadn’t been high on her list, finsdown on Auord.

  Lacking tapes, you entered a destination. The ship’s navsystem would compute the most direct route available, accessing the latest star charts to avoid close proximity to posted hazards such as, but not limited to: novas, comets, space stations, intersystem blockades, and reported piracy.

  Morgan picked up the sheet of plas with the coordinates for Snosbor IV, doing the math. If he made the switch now, assuming Erin didn’t notice the Wayfarer heading in a direction negative to the one she’d input—a safe bet, given her preoccupation with the engine?

  By the time they were supposed to exit subspace, they’d be two and half days from Snosbor IV; four and half from Plexis.

  Plexis, where there was always outbound cargo to be had, if you knew where to go. He’d dangled it, bait to Erin’s ambition to be a trader at last, knowing she’d bite.

  Faced with being nowhere close to a destination, they’d have to keep going. Closer was safer, with this old ship and her cobbled-together engine. Despite Snosbor IV having nothing worthwhile to fill the Wayfarer’s holds, surely Erin would agree to continue on—

  He wouldn’t. Morgan leaned back with a frustrated sigh, staring up at the ceiling of his quarters. Like him, she’d think of her ship first—no, second. The urge to space him would come first, but he read Erin as getting past temper. As thinking.

  Of her ship first. The future.

  Not part of his mindset. His lips twisted. Ahead lay darkness. Unless the Clan on board could send the rest of their kind home without, as Rael warned, using the M’hir, it’d be up to him. To become an executioner—a murderer—defending those who didn’t know against what they couldn’t believe.