by James Palmer
There was silence as the Sabour digested this information.
“Nothing more came out of the report of the disturbance at Pyx’s. Are you sure the good doctor wasn’t in on the burglary?”
“Absolutely. He could not hide that from me.”
Bal Tabarin shrugged. “I guess that leaves us with Omar Batrachian.”
Rebani Kalba smiled grimly as he reached for a towel. “I guess it does.”
7 In Which Vultures
Begin Circling
In the dim red light, it was difficult to judge the dimensions of the chamber. Two figures crossed the room, walking toward an undefined mass some distance away on the other side of the amorphous chamber. In the semi-darkness of the room, the mound looked like a mass of protoplasm, quivering slightly in a rhythmic pattern, ripples caught by the dull crimson light.
A cloak could not conceal the obvious curves of one of the visitors; she was unmistakably a woman. She was attractive by the standards of any of the human races of the Milky Way, young and buxom, and graceful in her movements. These revealed a confidence in her, as if she was used to beings getting out of her way.
The other, also clothed in a voluminous cloak, had the features of a gargoyle, small horns on his forehead, and large, beak-like nose, thick lips twisted in a permanent sneer. Gnarled, clawed hands peeked out from his robes as he walked. He was a two-legged panther as he moved, graceful and powerful, across the room.
Beside the lump-like mass which was high as a man’s shoulders, stiffly stood a small, thin being in clothing a little too large for its wearer. He wore them like a uniform, neat and orderly. His short, black hair was parted in the center with military precision, and a monocle dangled from a dark ribbon, resting on his thin chest. Despite ruddy skin and two small tusks protruding from his lower lip, he appeared frail, like the first strong wind would knock him over. He watched the two approach with hard eyes.
The mass shifted slightly, and from it came a hollow voice that rang like a bell, clear despite its lack of volume. “Omar Batrachian,” it said.
“Omar Batrachian,” agreed the gargoyle-faced being, his voice surprisingly mild and cultured for one of his appearance. The two didn’t match.
“Does he have one of the Hearts?” asked the lump of gray flesh in his hollow voice.
“That’s difficult to say, Arga,” answered the gargoyle. “If he does not, he knows where one is.”
“Certainly,” agreed Arga Cilus, the gray mass, flesh quivering with the force of the word. In the gloom, as the gargoyle’s and the woman’s eyes adjusted to the unusual lighting, Arga Cilus’ features slowly became more distinct, and he appeared less an undefined mass of flesh, and more a being resembling themselves. His head was composed mostly of two large and dark eyes which resembled pools of viscous liquid. A small mouth lay at the very bottom of his head. No nose was discernible, and vestigial ears had all but disappeared. His race, the Duhame, was descended from a herd species. Thick tawny skin resembled canvas covering a lump of protoplasm, his fat all but swallowing his stubby arms and legs. Thick, wide nails sat bluntly at the end of short, thick fingers, three to a hand.
“The Princess and I have located one ourselves, on Covenant,” the gargoyle reported, a cruel smile splitting his face.
“In the possession of their Prophet,” he added, laughing a harsh laugh that cut the still air. “They believe it’s a holy relic.”
“They’re closer to the truth than they realize,” Princess Virga said suddenly, a slight tremor in her voice. “If Arga Cilus is right.”
“Do what you must, Xiten,” instructed Arga Cilus, his mass shifting again as he leaned toward the two. “The Colonel has brought another situation to my attention which requires immediate action.”
Xiten bowed grandiosely, and turned and led Princess Virga from the chamber. Under his breath, he said to her, “It won’t be very much longer now, my dear.”
8 In Which Books
Should Not Be Judged by Their Covers
Omar Batrachian’s office was located in a ramshackle building in a seedy part of town. The area was composed mostly of warehouses that were decades old, and looked it. Not much traffic threaded the broad roadways built for cargo vehicles.
Batrachian’s building was no exception to the rule. It needed a coat of paint, and a few shrubs wouldn’t have hurt the place. The building appeared deserted due to the lack of upkeep on it. It looked like the type of place you would go only if you had to.
Bal Tabarin hazarded a guess that none of Batrachian’s clients had ever been to his office, for they would have been less than impressed. The businessman would not have garnered many clientele with the offices.
The Corruban wondered how a small-time operator – that what was Batrachian had to be with an office such as this one – like Batrachian had gotten mixed up with the Sacred Heart. It didn’t seem likely to Bal that Batrachian had stolen, or engineered the theft of, the Sacred Heart from Dr. Pyx. But, as the adventurer well knew, appearances could be deceiving.
As if reading his mind, Rebani interrupted Bal’s ponderings. “This place is not what it seems.”
“Meaning?”
The Sabour’s green eyes narrowed as he gazed at the decrepit building. “I’m not sure,” he said, almost under his breath.
Rebani glanced at Bal Tabarin. “I just feel that something isn’t right here.”
“Are we in trouble?” asked Bal, not sounding particularly concerned.
Rebani smiled grimly. “Of course not.”
Bal didn’t like the tone of bravado in his companion’s voice. It meant Rebani might underestimate a threat. And what might not be deadly to a Sabour could easily be fatal to a non-Sabour. Although brave and often daring himself, Bal would rather err on the side of caution. It was a matter of calculated risk; he didn’t like going into an unknown danger.
And Bal wasn’t entirely convinced that Rebani wouldn’t sacrifice Bal, his ship, and anything else he had to in pursuit of the other pieces of the gem. Bal’s motives were easily enough understood, but Rebani’s ... who could say?
Keeping his musings to himself, Bal followed as Rebani started toward the office door of the building.
A small holovisor screen sat in the wall to the right of the door. At the approach of the two, it lit up, the face of a pleasant-looking Human female appearing there.
“Greetings,” she said, her voice warm even through the transceiver. “How may I help you?”
“We wish to see Omar Batrachian,” Rebani said abruptly.
“We understand that he has an impressive collection of unusual items,” Bal added quickly. “We’re looking for an unusual item.”
“What sort of item?” the receptionist asked helpfully.
Bal glanced at Rebani, who frowned, but remained silent.
“Well, I won’t know it until I see it,” Bal said painfully, as if he had been hunting the item for some time, unsuccessfully, and was plainly frustrated by the results of his search. “But I’m sure Mr. Batrachian has just what I’m looking for.”
Bal flashed the datacard of Batrachian he had gotten from Dr. Pyx, slowly enough for the receptionist to get a good look at it, but not slowly enough that it appeared he was making a show of having the card. He added, “His reputation precedes him.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Batrachian is off-planet, and will be for some time,” the receptionist apologized, looking sincere as she did so. “The office is closed until he returns.”
“Are you certain you can’t help me?” asked Bal gently, almost apologetically. “I must have my antique.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Mr. Batrachian handles all transactions,” explained the receptionist on the screen.
“Thank you, anyway,” said Bal. He smiled wanly, giving the receptionist a look of surrender.
The screen went dark again, and Bal and Rebani slowly walked away from the entrance to the building.
“Would, eh, breaking in be beneath you?” Bal
asked Rebani in a casual tone.
When the Sabour didn’t answer, Bal said, “I don’t understand why you didn’t persuade her like you did Pyx.”
Rebani smiled thinly at his companion. “She was a hologram.”
“She was not,” Bal protested. “Holograms aren’t that sophisticated.”
“She answered questions that any receptionist would have to be able to answer, and no more,” Rebani pointed out. “A hologram wouldn’t have to possess a very elaborate personality to do that. If you think about it, you’ll realize she was no more sophisticated than a holo-teller in a bank. You just didn’t expect one here.”
Bal eyed his companion dubiously. “What would a sophisticated hologram be doing in a neighborhood like this one?”
“What, indeed?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Very well,” said Rebani. “Come with me.”
The Sabour returned to the entrance. Bal stalked in silence behind him. Again, the holovisor screen lit up with the image of the receptionist as the two approached the door.
Without preface, Rebani asked, “What is the color of the sky?”
“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist, a vague look of apology on her nice face. “I can’t answer that.”
“Very well. Don’t you recognize me? I’m the President of Garscon,” Rebani said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” said the receptionist, apologetically.
“That’s all right,” answered Rebani in an understanding tone. “I just realized I’m late for an important cabinet meeting. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course,” replied the receptionist. The screen went dark again.
Rebani walked away from the door. Bal, dumbfounded, followed slowly. He quickened his pace to catch up to the departing Sabour.
“You couldn’t have deduced that she was a hologram by her responses,” Bal protested. “You fuzed it?”
“Yes,” answered Rebani. “And I realized she might be the thing which was not quite right. But now I believe it goes much deeper than that.”
“She wouldn’t be the only thing not right about an office like this,” agreed Bal. “Batrachian is probably inside, and heard our conversations with his holo-receptionist,” he added disgustedly.
“Very likely,” agreed Rebani in a grave tone as the two approached Bal’s skimmer, parked on the street near the warehouse. “There is someone inside, but I cannot determine the identity of that being. I would not be surprised if we were being observed at this very moment.”
Bal opened the canopy of the skimmer, floating above the pavement, and climbed in. “What do we do now?” he asked, thinking of Rebani’s direct approach with Pyx.
“Perhaps we should wait for that being to come out of his shell,” suggested the Sabour, entering the skimmer. To Bal’s quizzical look, Rebani explained, “The building, despite its appearance, is heavily fortified.”
“How do you know that?”
“I sensed it while we were at the entrance,” replied Rebani casually. “Actually, the fortification of the building was the clue which made me think the receptionist might be a hologram.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know what was wrong with building,” objected Bal in a growl.
“I didn’t, at that time,” explained Rebani. “My proximity to the building when we talked with the holo-receptionist allowed me to more closely examine it.”
Bal’s reply was silence as he steered the skimmer conspicuously away from Batrachian’s ramshackle-appearing building.
In the darkness, Bal shifted uncomfortably in the skimmer. “I wish we’d brought the hopper,” he said, referring to the other planetary vehicle in the vehicle bay of The Vagabond Lady. The skimmer was a ground vehicle, used for short journeys. The hopper was designed for atmospheric flight, for use when taking a skimmer would take too much time. As such, it was supplied for long trips, and could serve as a mobile base of operations, when necessary, equipped with a small kitchenette, wall bunks, and functional latrine. By comparison, the skimmer was little more than two seats and a small cargo area. It was an uncomfortable place to spend several hours waiting, but undoubtedly Bal’s impatience made the wait worse.
Ironically, the direct Rebani showed more patience than Bal. The latter had commented on this early on in their surveillance of Batrachian’s building.
“I don’t understand you,” Bal had said. “You couldn’t wait to get into Pyx’s house, but now you seem like you don’t care if we ever see Batrachian.”
“When I can do, I do,” Rebani said philosophically, “and when I cannot, I do not.”
Bal “hmf”-ed in an annoyed tone. “I’d rather do something – anything – which takes me closer to my goal, even if it’s incrementally so,” explained Bal in a frustrated voice.
“If it helps, you are doing something -- you’re waiting.”
“It doesn’t help,” Bal had complained ruefully. That had been hours ago. It was dark now, shortly after dusk.
Suddenly, a rusty bay door of the decrepit warehouse opened with an audible screech, and an equally decrepit skimmer, colored two differing shades of brown, journeyed forth onto the street.
“Uh-oh,” exclaimed Bal, jolting upright in his seat.
Rebani watched the departing skimmer for the moment it took Bal to start his own vehicle, then climbed out. “Go ahead. I’ll stay here.”
Bal Tabarin shot Rebani a non-plussed look, then shrugged and put the skimmer in motion, falling in behind the other vehicle. He glanced rearward briefly, and saw that the Sabour had disappeared from sight.
Bal’s skimmer quickly overhauled the other. It was best to end it quickly, while they were still in the deserted warehouse area of the town, where no innocents might be injured by a skimmer collision. And where it would take any police authority some time to respond.
As he pulled up beside the other skimmer, Bal tried to look into its cockpit, but its canopy was tinted, and opaque. He gestured for the skimmer to pull over.
The skimmer ignored Bal Tabarin. It had neither slowed nor changed its course in response to Bal’s warnings. The other driver seemed determinedly oblivious to Bal’s presence.
The Corruban snarled with impatience, and rammed his vehicle into the other, gently forcing it off the roadway. Rather than retaliating or stopping altogether, the skimmer smoothly sought to regain the tarmac.
Annoyed, Bal Tabarin sent his skimmer once more into the other, forcefully enough so that the vehicle veered away from the roadway, toward a building. It would have to come to a stop, or crash into the stone structure.
Approaching the building without a reduction in speed, the skimmer was on a collision course with the massive structure. It appeared to be about to crash into one stone wall. As he watched, Bal hoped the driver wouldn’t be too injured to answer questions.
Abruptly, the speeding skimmer came to a halt, too suddenly to prevent injury to the driver, but collision with the stone building had been avoided.
The Corruban quickly guided his skimmer next to the other, watching all the while for a possible fleeing driver, but none appeared. As his own skimmer slowed to a stop, Bal withdrew a blaze gun from a concealed compartment between the seats, and released the canopy of the skimmer. As it raised, he leapt from the cockpit in one smooth motion, landing gracefully on the ground, and rushed the other vehicle.
Bal trained the blazer on the tinted canopy of the skimmer, and gave the driver a millichronon to open it. When no such response came, Bal squeezed the trigger of the blazer, and blew a hole in the dark glassteel canopy.
Bal looked inside, through the head-sized hole, and found only empty seats.
Realizing he had been tricked by a skimmer equipped with an auto-driver, Bal Tabarin swore softly to himself.
Rebani Kalba took an indirect course to the rear of the dilapidated building that was Omar Batrachian’s office, skirting the now-empty buildings surrounding the mysterious businessman’s warehouse. Around back
of the ramshackle structure, he located a non-descript door which appeared to be disused.
Crouched in the darkness, Rebani waited, watching the portal for a few moments as his mind scanned the area. He was a shadow within a shadow as he waited patiently inside a doorway of a building neighboring Batrachian’s.
A few moments later, a being exited the door under the Sabour’s surveillance. He was short and hairless, his skin being varying shades of green. His face was fleshy, his jowls prominent. A monocle dangled from a lapel of his ordinary business suit, which was a rather unpleasant shade of purple. A plain, dark cane was gripped in one small, webbed hand. With large, round eyes, he surveyed the area, and, convinced no one was about, walked away from the deserted-looking warehouse.
From seemingly out of nowhere, Rebani Kalba appeared behind the little being, between him and the door to the warehouse.
“Omar Batrachian, I presume,” Rebani announced.
The short amphibian being visibly jumped at the sound of the Sabour’s voice. He spun, and with no more than a trace of concern in his voice, said, “You again. What do you want?”
As he spoke, Omar Batrachian carefully looked around for signs of the confederate who had accompanied this man earlier, unobtrusively pointing his cane at his assailant as he did so.
Rebani smiled grimly. “That won’t do you any good, Batrachian. I am a Sabour Monitor. And you have information I require.”
Rebani took a step toward Omar Batrachian. In an instant, the little amphibian seemed to assess the Sabour’s words, and he began waddling away from Rebani as fast as his little legs could carry him.
Rebani was upon him in a flash, and hoisted the little amphibian into the air with one hand. Omar Batrachian’s tiny arms and legs flailed helplessly as the Sabour brought Batrachian’s face up to his own.