Celestial Hit List

by Charles Ingrid

He was just as certain he did want to meet the man who’d made sure the Dominion fell to defeat on Milos. Would meet him. Was headed on a collision course with him. A man named Winton, who was hidden somewhere among the emperor’s civil servants. Once Winton had been a commander and had given the orders to abandon Dominion troops on Milos while the Thrakian League closed an almost inescapable ring about the planet.

  A few troopships had been sent down, for show, he supposed. He’d made it out on one, after all his men had been wiped out. He’d made it to the safety of a cold sleep transport. It and its sister ships were attacked by Thraks while pulling out, their warship coverage already canceled by someone—Winton, again, he supposed—and only his ship had made it through.

  But not undamaged. The transport had suffered heavily and all systems failed, except for the auxiliary systems on the cryogenic bays, systems which operated independently of the ship and which had been solar powered.

  Jack would never know how, deep in cold sleep, he’d managed to set off his secondary power system, but it was the only thing that kept him alive, though locked in sleep, for the seventeen long years it took for the drifting ship to be found.

  He’d suffered frostbite, lost his right little finger, and three toes. And his sanity, temporarily.

  A small price to pay for life?

  Jack still wasn’t sure.

  He gave up on sleep and sat on the edge of his bed.

  Ballard had been an early casualty on Milos and gone AWOL. He’d bought himself that gold ocular piece to replace the organ damaged and lost through inadequate medical facilities. Amber had taken Jack to see Ballard, and Ballard had recognized Jack for what he really was. A real Knight, not a member of a hastily resurrected bodyguard. A true Knight, unheralded by the Triad Throne and the Dominion.

  Ballard’s face imprinted itself in Jack’s thoughts, dominating the night quiet room, a hole where a gold screen eye should have been.

  Jack shook off his nightmares and reached abruptly for his pants and boots. He had no business sleeping this night when a short journey demanded his attention before the longer one. The signs were all there for him to read.

  He intended to find out for himself whether Ballard had plucked out an offending eye or not.

  Chapter Six

  Amber’s bad habits were not only contagious, they had some merit, Jack reflected, as he stalled the commuter car, snagged back the hard disk with the delivery address on it and rerouted it to another address without leaving a record of it. On the other hand, being circumspect about his comings and goings was beginning to feel both natural and healthy. Here in the underbelly of the city of Malthen, where the palace was only a rosy morning star on the horizon, anything less than caution could be fatal.

  He got out of the car when it stopped and with a stretch moved his lanky frame out of camera’s view as he coded the car to go around the corner to a lot and wait. It wouldn’t be too difficult to avoid the cameras down here—half of them were already out of commission—what was difficult was not looking as though he were avoiding them. Amber made it as easy as breathing.

  He felt the corner of his mouth quirk as he searched for and found the door to The Rusty Bolt. Ballard wouldn’t be in here, and probably not in the first five places he searched, but it was a start. In the lawful zones, the bars had already been shut, but down here, laws were made to be broken, laser-fried, and scrapped.

  This was the city where Amber had grown up.

  No one took much notice of Jack as he came through the door. The bartender’s glance flickered up and back down, where he was watching a screen embedded into the bar counter. Doings in the back room, no doubt.

  Jack stood out of range of the multilensed camera that would report his visage not only to the local Sweepers, the city police, but to the inhabitants of the bar and the plastiscreened booths to the rear. If Ballard were here and if Ballard were the least bit guilty about what he’d put them through, Ballard would be leaving as soon as he spotted Jack.

  And Ballard would be watching; oh, yes, the old renegade would have his weather eye out for anyone coming into the bar, if only because of his old AWOL record.

  Not that he hadn’t had the opportunity to reconcile himself with his abrupt abandonment of duty. Pepys had declared general amnesty about eight years ago. It was just, as Ballard had remarked to Jack once, that those vets on the amnesty roles seemed to have awfully short life spans. Ballard held the opinion that continued cowardice was in order.

  Jack swept his gaze about the room once more and spotted a furtive movement in the back corner. He was there in three strides. The weasel-faced street punk looked up, the whites of his eyes rolling, and a stench on his breath, his purpled hair gelled into a wave that was so permanent it carried a feathery coating of dust.

  The punk froze in the booth and then leaned back, nonchalantly.

  “Ballard,” Jack said.

  “He’s not here.”

  “The obvious could get you killed.”

  The punk’s chapped face paled slightly. He put out a hand on the tabletop. Plug marks scarred the back of it. “What do you want him for?”

  “Questions like that will get you killed even faster.”

  “All right.” The punk looked away. “Try th’ Black Hole over on—”

  Jack was halfway out the door before he finished the address. He knew the place. He called the commuter car, tickled its innards a bit more, and then leaned back. The sky was still a dark and dirty black, but it showed signs of lightening.

  The Black Hole was aptly named, a bar and gaming joint along the subways reached by a black, tunnel-like entrance. Jack had no way of avoiding cameras here as he slid down and landed deftly on his feet. No one at all marked his entrance, he’d already been looked over on the way down. He straightened his overjacket and folded his collar back down.

  The smoky atmosphere stung his eyes and he could barely think over the din of the tables and players. He moved about the perimeter of the floor, keeping an eye out for the man with an eye out, as it were. Thinking of this image, Jack smiled to himself grimly. But Ballard’s blue-black curled hair and burly form wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Jack rubbed a hand along his slacks. The air had a greasy feel to it. He wasn’t excited about broaching the privacy curtains along the back wall.

  No live bartender here… the bar was computer automated. If he’d had Amber along, she could have gotten the information he wanted from the billing banks, but it was too late for regrets now. He knew of one or two other places on his own, but the Black Hole was shedding no light for him on Ballard’s whereabouts.

  He turned to go, as a passing subway carrier shuddered the walls of the building. Then he spotted a trio of civilians canvassing the place much as he was, only they weren’t being subtle about it.

  Something about the lead man’s face nagged at him and Jack knew he’d seen it before, but he couldn’t remember the circumstances. He stepped back into an empty booth and made it look as though he’d been occupying it for a while. The credit cursor blinked annoyingly, nagging him to order a drink or otherwise spend some money. He dropped the commuter car hard disk into the slot. Let them take a while to figure that one out! He settled back and listened as well as he could over the booth’s mufflers.

  “Took you long enough.” This, muted, from the corner of the booth. Jack frowned, trying to remember whether he’d seen someone sitting in the shadows or not. Memory did not serve him, but from the direction of the responses, three still stood and one sat, so there must have been.

  “This isn’t exactly the best part of town,” the lead member of the trio responded, and with those tones. Jack identified the man. It was Scott Randolph, the broadcaster who’d worried Amber so. There were sounds of bodies sliding into the booth and the whole conversation became muddled, difficult for him to decipher.

  “…paid enough…”

  A burst of unpleasant laughter, then, “My head’s worth more than that.”

  “Your head�
�s full of ratt. Our com lines…”

  Another laugh. “Your lines have been bugged since you laid them… there’re some very nasty people living in the emperor’s palace. They got to Ballard. Sooner or later they’ll be looking for me.”

  Jack’s steady heartbeat jumped. Ballard! Who had gotten to him, and for how much? Had the delivery of the eye been to flush him? He thought of what he would tell Amber… that the gold eyepiece had been torn from Ballard. He gathered his concentration and listened again.

  “—name names, then! That’s what you’ve been paid for—”

  “Drink, sir?”

  Jack looked up abruptly. The servo stood at the side of the booth, demanding audibly what the screen had been nagging him visually for. “Beer,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” The machine whirled away.

  Jack leaned his head back against the plastic screening. Randolph had lapsed into silence and a higher pitched voice had taken over, arguing the finer points of obtaining information. His attention drifted.

  Then Randolph said, “I want the name of the lost Knight. You’ve been dragging this on long enough.”

  A ratt inspired laugh. “You don’t ask for much, do you? There are lots of survivors out there, hiding.”

  “Not Knights.”

  The servo whirled back within earshot and eyeshot. “Your drink, sir.”

  “Quiet,” Jack ordered.

  “Payment or tab?”

  “Shut up,” Jack commanded. He listened to the sounds of weight shifting in the booth.

  “Your dri—”

  Jack reached out and abruptly unplugged the audio. He jammed a credit disk into the slot and snagged his beer. The servo did a one-eighty and wheeled rapidly toward the bar, its “repair needed” light flashing.

  “…unreliable source. I can’t use you anymore.”

  A muffled burp, then, “You can’t get the information anywhere else. The man’s not carrying ident. The records have been wiped. I know what I know.”

  “And you’ve been feeding it to me for years, a hint at a time. I won’t support your vices any longer. This is your last payment.”

  Someone stood in the booth. A boot heel scuffed. Then, “Meet me in the alley.”

  Jack put the bottle to his lips, sucking down the cold, bittersweet dark beer, and watched from the corner of his eye as a shadow left the booth.

  Randolph got up also, and, his back turned to the room, looked down at his two companions, saying, “We’ll follow in three minutes.”

  “Je-sus—”

  Randolph said, “Let him go. We’ll do as he says.” He tapped his watch impatiently, then said, “Let’s go.”

  What the broadcaster didn’t see was what Jack saw… two men getting up from the far side of the room and heading for the back door to follow them out. Jack recognized the surreptitious pat of jackets as the two checked their weapons. The broadcasters didn’t have three minutes.

  With mixed feelings, Jack lurched to his feet. The alley was topside and the shadows had gone for the elevator shaft. He took the stairs, three at a time, wishing for his armor with its seven-league strides, breath hot in his lungs by the time he reached the top and steadied himself. He pulled his own palm laser from its thigh holster and wasted precious seconds listening.

  Rain had never reached this dark concrete canyon. It choked with the stench of human waste and garbage, drugs and dust. It trembled as another subway car rocketed below it. Jack blinked as light flared, burning away the night. He heard a coarse yell and a heavy weight dropping, then running footsteps.

  He stepped out into the center of the alley and fired, his own beam flashing blue-white. The laser angled off the corner edge, he heard a yelp and a stumble, and then shouts.

  He made his way to the cluster of figures in the dim center of the alleyway. Echoing footsteps reached him as he joined Randolph and his companions. The broadcaster lit a mini-flare and dropped it in the street.

  A man lay crumpled at their feet. Jack identified their informant. He looked away. The man wouldn’t last long.

  One of the companions hunkered down. He took the informant’s hand in his and said, again, “Je-sus.”

  Jack recognized the voice. Randolph’s producer. He was chunky and too white, slug white, as if he rarely saw the outside of a building. The man was sweating as he looked up.

  The broadcaster’s glance flickered toward Jack. “Thanks,” he said briefly.

  Jack shrugged. He kept his gun in hand, saying, “This isn’t the best part of town,” echoing their earlier statement with irony.

  The producer, rattled, said, “That’s what we said. Wasn’t it, Scott?”

  “Shut up, Dykstra.”

  The informant took a long, rattling breath. He got out, with a hissing, sucking noise, “Ssscot. Get down here, on your knees, beside me. I’m… only gonna say this once.”

  The broadcaster hesitated, then got down on one knee. Behind him, Dykstra’s pale face was illuminated by the pink glow of the flare. The informant’s face was already crimson… by virtue of his own blood. Jack pretended not to be listening, but his attention was riveted to the man’s dying words. Scott’s normally firm voice shook as he answered, “I’m listening.”

  “Good. The man you want… I have a name… of a man… who survived the Sand Wars. You’ll have to… do your own research…” a hissing laugh, reminding Jack of a torn vacuum hose. “He has his own armor… A mercenary…”

  Jack’s blood chilled. Who was the man going to name? He couldn’t afford the exposure, but something stayed him from stamping out the frail spark of life remaining in the black and crimson hulk dying on the street.

  “He’s known as the Owner of the Purple, but his name is… Kavin. And that’s all I know. All I ever knew…”

  The man’s voice faded. Scott Randolph might have heard more, but the voice was gone to Jack’s hearing.

  Jack blinked in shock in the black draped alleyway, looking outward, as he heard Randolph get to his feet. From the far distance came the pulse of a siren. Sweepers, on their way, late as usual, to the bad part of town.

  The Purple was not a fighter’s son, as he had always been led to believe. The Purple had the same heritage he did… and had given no sign of it.

  Betrayal twisted in Jack’s chest. He swallowed and started as one of Scott’s men put a hand on his arm.

  “Thanks, mister, but—sounds like we’d all better get out of here.”

  The curtain of night curled back a little around the edges of the concrete canyon about them. Jack nodded, realizing he had a transport to catch. He faded away, walking quickly, purposefully, then breaking into a run once he reached the corner, not wanting Randolph to be able to call him back as the broadcaster said, “Wait a minute! Who are you?

  Who, indeed, Jack thought, and ducked into his commuter car. Who were they all, the orphans of the Sand Wars?

  Chapter Seven

  St. Colin of the Blue Wheel came down from his meditation tower and dropped heavily, due to his years and his worries, onto his overstuffed couch. His secretary started to hurry in, but came to a stop and then respectfully backed out as Colin waved him away. Biggie reminded him of an overfriendly creature.

  “Leave me alone,” he said. “I want to think.”

  And then, as the soft padded steps of his male secretary faded away and the door shushed behind him, he smiled with irony. He had had to leave his meditation tower in order to think.

  Colin swung his feet up on a table, an antique table of burnished oak which was reputed to have come from far away and long ago Earth itself. The vibrations of the wood, still imbued with a spark of its origin, thrummed. The saint felt it. Had always felt it. Would always be in tune somewhat to the vibrations of the worlds, and he never gave it a second thought, not completely aware that others did not feel the same.

  He plucked a piece of lint off his dark blue trousers. His prayer coat had fallen open and he noticed that the edges of its sharply pressed hem were somew
hat worn. He wondered to himself if he, too, had become somewhat worn.

  He must have. He needed to think clearly and precisely about recent events and yet logic eluded him. All he had was a vague misgiving which grew sharper day by day. Pepys had kept him at arm’s length yesterday and he did not like the way his old friend and rival had also kept Jack Storm away.

  It was not right. Nor was it prudent. Pepys would surely have wanted to know what had happened at Lasertown from the man most involved, but Colin knew from his spies at court that the emperor had never called Storm in for deposition and that he had refused calls from the Knight. And, legally, the Walkers could not call for testimony until the emperor had. That was not good for them. Jack was one of the last men to have seen the Lasertown archaeological site intact. What did he have locked inside his head that even Colin was unaware of?

  Colin rubbed his forehead and sat back on the couch, resting his head on its back edge. He was a Walker, named for his calling that sought physical proof that his Savior had indeed gone on to walk other worlds, preparing them for Man, and for eventual entry into Heaven. He lived in hopes that he might someday see that proof. Never mind the Messiah mythology that almost every civilization independently evolved. No. He searched for something more.

  He looked at the ceiling without seeing it, seeing instead the Knight and his somewhat dubious Lady at court yesterday, remembering a dangerous and yet strangely honorable man. Did Pepys know what he had in Jack Storm? Colin doubted it. The Knights were buried in all of Pepys’ machinations and plots, and the saint truly doubted that the emperor thought any more of Jack than he did of any pawn.

  A definite mistake.

  Storm. Colin blinked. His spies had not been able to unearth any records of Jack Storm, or of anyone with that surname.

  The man sighed heavily. Storm. It was more of a prophecy than a name.

  Goren watched the day room closely. Four of his current patients were enjoying the solar, bathing in the mineral waters or resting, relaxing among the greenery. One sat off to the side, talking animatedly to no one, but the look on his face was one of peace and contentment.