Celestial Hit List Read online

  Celestial Hit List

  The Sand Wars

  Book III

  Charles Ingrid

  CONTENTS

  Dedicated To:

  PART I Malthen

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  PART II Bythia

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Dedicated To:

  Howard, who’s been there and back again and lived to tell the tale, with thanks… some spoken but many not.

  And to Sheila, for all her help and encouragement as well.

  PART I

  Malthen

  Chapter One

  “No suit, no soldier. We’ve drummed that into you. And now, we’re going to make liars out of ourselves. The purpose of this exercise,” their commander said, his voice ringing off the forty-foot-high parade ground walls, “is to prove that, even if you take away the armor, you still have a Knight.” He looked across the phalanx, squinting in the too-bright sun of the planet Malthen, sweating in the almost desert quality heat of the city of Malthen. “After we’re done with you, it’s far more than the armor or the gauntlet stingers or the laser cannons that make you what you are.”

  Within their rows, the soldiers stood at ease, though admittedly somewhat ill at ease. They murmured amongst themselves, listening to the broadcast from the movable platform to their fore, and closely watching the man who paced through the ranks between them and the commander, for he was their hero.

  He was lean and rangy, muscle still filling out his young frame, for they were all young—the rigors of being a Dominion Knight for the Triad Throne demanded a body in its prime—but the eyes of washed out blue held a look far older than his years, dominating his angular face. He paused, throwing back his head and looking up, in spite of the too-bright sun. The movement tossed drops of water from sweat-darkened sandy hair. He frowned. He was on display here, and he did not like it. For the barest second, his eyes darkened like the storm of his surname.

  Then he looked to his commander—whippet lean, wavy hair of gleaming silver, a space-tanned face, dressed to the neck in immaculate silvers.

  “Where are the equipment racks?”

  “They’re on the way. Relax, Jack. This is just a rehearsal.”

  The hero made a low noise of disgust at the back of his throat and began to prowl again, much to the dismay of the short, round-bodied man attempting to measure him. Storm pointed at his commander. “If my suit’s been disturbed—”

  “It won’t be. We’ve had them under guard. Don’t you think I know media tricks? It won’t be bugged, I promise you that. And we’ll have them swept clean again tomorrow before the ceremony.”

  Jack Storm paused again, a fraction of a moment, and their eyes met. Nothing was more inviolate to a Knight than the suit of battle armor his life depended upon. He did not say that to his commander, however, for the man facing him also wore battle armor and the only name the commander was known by was that of his armor: the Owner of the Purple. Jack’s friend and commander was so well known for the mercenary armor passed down to him by his father that he had lost his original identity.

  If the waiting ranks of soldiers noted the tension, they said nothing. The coming ceremony pricked at them, too. They’d worked and trained hard and most of them looked forward to their first blooding. Not many relished being paraded on live relays for civilians to gape at. Almost as one, they shifted uneasily, waiting for their own battle gear to arrive.

  Jack stopped again, two steps away from the Purple who lounged at the base of his platform. “I’m a soldier, not a hero. None of this is necessary.” He started to say more, but he wasn’t alone. He flinched under the tailor’s measuring hologram, moving almost imperceptibly, and the round-bodied man swore.

  “You’ll be a soldier without legs if you don’t stand still!” The little man glared at the tall one and he brandished his laser scissors. He met no resistance this time as the Purple held Jack’s level stare.

  “The emperor wants to review the troops,” the Purple said evenly.

  “Damnit, he knows what we look like.”

  At Jack’s flank, the tailor tapped in some adjustments on his keypad. “You’ve filled out some more. That means another fitting!”

  “Peace, Franco,” the commander said mildly. “He needed it, after Lasertown. There’s only three meals between now and tomorrow morning. The uniform should be adequate.”

  Jack looked at the tailor, amusement flickering in his light blue eyes. The tailor met the glance before looking quickly away. Bowing, he turned off the holo and hurriedly skittered across the parade grounds.

  The Purple straightened up. “Pepys wants you at your best tomorrow,” he said. “How often does a contract laborer become a hero?”

  “I was a Knight, first.”

  “And before you became a Knight, a free-lance mercenary.”

  No, Jack thought. I was always a Knight. But he did not voice his thoughts, because the mercenaries followed a code that said there was no tomorrow, only today, and the Purple had accepted him on that basis. For the Owner of the Purple, Jack had no history. Instead of interrupting, Jack listened, knowing that his former mercenary friend had become a mediator, a buffer, always between the newly reformed Knights, and the Emperor of the Triad Throne. All of them had sworn allegiance to the emperor in all manner of thought and deed—except for Jack. He’d sworn vengeance. Now, as if to hide his thoughts, he turned on one heel, looking back at his fellows. “He’s tripled the size of the bodyguard.”

  “Closer to quadrupled, while you were gone.”

  Storm stared at the Malthen parade grounds, but what he saw was the dead moon surface, where he had nearly died. He blinked and the dust and heat-fused parade grounds came back into focus. Would it never rain here, sweeping away the dust and misery? In spite of the heat, he shivered. He’d worked hard to become a Knight, only to lose it all when he’d been shanghaied, contracted out—but he’d fought back. And now he was back.

  Pepys seemed determined to make a hero out of him instead of an embarrassment by adding cover-up charges to the havoc Jack had already wreaked.

  Such as blowing up a Thrakian warship despite the Treaty.

  Jack smiled grimly at the memory. Sound shields were up, a sonic curtain protecting the practice ceremony from electronic surveillance by over-eager media specialists. But what he had to say was for the commander’s ears alone. He stepped closer to the Owner of the Purple.

  “Why won’t he see me?”

  Purple looked at him. Humor had permanently etched its marks at the corners of lively brown eyes that belied the age his silvery hair indicated. He paused, before asking in turn, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s talked to everybody about Lasertown but me. For God’s sake, he’s even interviewed you and you weren’t even there.”

  “He’s protecting you, isn
’t he? The man’s emperor, Jack, not a damn garbage processor.”

  “What I have to say isn’t garbage. He has to know what happened, not only to me but to everyone under the dome—he has to know what the Thraks are doing. He has to know what I saw.”

  The two men stood, nearly nose to nose, an old man with young eyes and a young man with old eyes. Jack shifted, angry but uneasy over being at odds with his commander.

  “He’s the emperor,” Purple said quietly. “The Sand Wars brought down old Regis, but Pepys is determined not to make the same mistakes. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

  Jack started to say more, but his next words were drowned out by the noisy arrival of the equipment racks and he turned, almost lovingly, to the rack which held his own armor, opalescent Flexalinks hanging rigidly from its hooks.

  The sunlight became fiercer, its reflection arrowing off the equipment as the Knights suited up.

  “We shall demand retribution.”

  The ambassador of the Thrakian League lounged on his slant board and eyed the general pacing in front of him. “You shall do no such thing. If I am able to obtain an invitation to the ceremonies, you will be expected to show decorum.”

  “Decorum!” General Zlakt halted. His faceted eyes glared at those of his ambassador. “The being destroys a ship, and we are made chitinless by the likes of you!”

  The ambassador waved an arm. “May I remind you, general, that we were in the process of annexing a mining colony on the fringe of Dominion territory. We will not be given a chance to explain our motives. We are dangerously close to losing the treaty on the basis of your hasty orders.”

  “And we are no closer to Lasertown than before.”

  “No. And it’s my understanding that the site suffered considerable damage and is of no use to us anymore, as it is. I’ll not have you jeopardizing all I’ve worked for these last twenty years because of a warrior’s rage!” The ambassador sprang up from the slant board, bounding over to face the Thrakian general.

  The two confronted each other, genes of an ambassador opposed to those of a warrior.

  The general made a low, guttering sound from deep within his chitin. Then he said, “That warrior rage served you well during the Sand Wars.”

  “No doubt of that, Zlakt. But the Triad Throne has a new emperor and it is not likely we can push forward our advances like that again.” Ambassador Dhurl retreated a step. He swirled the end of his robe about and over his shoulder. “You may never admit it, but we ambassadors are soldiers of a kind. It is my skill he will respond to.”

  “Not if he thinks you spineless.”

  Dhurl pulled his face into the mask of undefeatability. Zlakt, watching him, felt the barest flicker of admiration. Even as he was a general, here was a true ambassador.

  “Emperor Pepys does not underestimate us. It is my job to see he does not. As for the loss of the Lasertown site, the matter is done with. There will be other opportunities to grapple with our old enemy.”

  “Perhaps. Then you will not ask for anything to be done to Jack Storm.”

  “No,” Dhurl said. His voice thickened. “Not yet. I will make a formal protest but expect nothing to come of it. Have you seen the armor?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I am told it’s been coated with norcite. An interesting combination, don’t you think?”

  General Zlakt drew himself upward tightly. “More than interesting,” he answered, “if the beings but knew what they had.” He saluted. “By your leave.”

  Dhurl sighed. “Of course, general.” The ambassador waited until the general reached the door of the embassy dwelling. “And Zlakt—”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t do anything foolish. I will not tolerate it.”

  Zlakt ground his mandibles but did not respond. Without waiting for further dismissal, he left the ambassador, slamming the door shut behind him.

  The slant board wavered in the aftershock. Ambassador Dhurl regarded it for a moment, then pulled his face plates into the mask of domination and retired once more.

  The palace halls of the Emperor’s wing stood shadowed, as if late at night, inviting visitors and assassins. Both visitors and assassins would normally have been turned away by the security cameras, floor and wall sensors, heat sensors and even the odd psychic or two tuned in at World Police. But now the Emperor was not at home. Having invited guests and knowing that the uninvited would be there as well, he had retired to a more secure building outside of Malthen.

  A solitary figure, already privy to the pattern of the maze that formed this wing, took the opportunity presented and glided along the corridors. Dressed in black, the opportunist paused now and then to avoid the invited guests and passed them by without even being noticed, despite all the cable and wiring and camera work the media was laying down for the following day’s events. With scarcely a sound, the opportunist continued to penetrate the security system, finally reaching the doors to Emperor Pepys’ study and pausing there. The bedrooms were not of interest. The computer room was.

  A clatter in the outside corridor sent the opportunist to the nearest shadow, where she held her breath, waited, and listened.

  “I don’t care who you have to bribe, I want that tape. And I want that tape pirate who calls himself a free-lance journalist brought in and hung by the balls. He’s patched in to me once too often. I want an exclusive, without excuses, on that man of Pepys’.”

  The intruder knew that crisp, baritone voice almost as well as she knew her own. He must be standing right outside Pepys’ door!

  “We’ll do what we can, Randolph, but be reasonable—”

  “Being reasonable didn’t get me where I am today. Let’s see if we can’t find this hero before they trot him out for public viewing. I want to see if he’s got any warts.”

  The second voice made a small gargling sound at the back of his throat, then asked, “Are you still working on the estrangement angle?

  Footsteps, a pace or two and then back. “Why not? Pepys is staging a media show… one he expects us to relay live, but I don’t think the broadcast will be as self-serving as he expects. I don’t intend to overlook his desire to be elected House Speaker for the Congress.”

  “Shit, Randolph, we can do without the controversy—we’ve got to be able to leave this planet, remember?”

  “That’s my job.” The deep voice hit a baritone note and held it for a moment, almost as if a bell tolled. “The Thrakian League will be boiling all over us tomorrow, protesting the recent events. Pepys wants a whitewash by pretending to lay out all the data, but he’s not going to get it.”

  The girl in the shadows put her head back to the cooling surface of the wall behind her. She steadied a hand, palm down. Not only did she know the voice and the powerful journalist who owned it, she knew the man they searched for. Knew him intimately. And knew that Scott Randolph could do nothing but harm to him if they found him.

  The computer room became unimportant, for the moment. She’d gotten here once, she’d make it back again. She pushed herself away from the wall and crossed the quarters to the double doors outside which stood the broadcaster and his crew.

  Randolph’s deep tones rumbled again. “I’ve got no guts to the show unless I find that hero.”

  There was a pause, then the second man said, “Don’t bullshit me, Scott. You’re still looking for a lead on your lost Knight story. You got suckered on that one—when are you going to admit it? We’ve been chasing that ghost for years.”

  “It’s no ghost! I know that.” There was an edge to Randolph’s voice, but even if it hadn’t been there, Amber’s attention would still have been frozen by these words. “My source is reliable.”

  “Your source is a ratt head. I’ve been your technical director for too long not to notice that the rumors crop up whenever he needs the credits.”

  “Maybe. But if there is such a man to be found—I can’t let that go.”

  “You can, but you won’t. You don’t want
to admit being scammed.”

  “Look, Dykstra—if you had a Knight you didn’t want noticed, where would you stick him?”

  “In vacuum without a deepsuit.”

  “Or in the midst of a new bodyguard of Knights.”

  “Maybe.” There was a pause. Then Dykstra said, “Maybe Pepys doesn’t intend to have him found. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Ah, my friend. Remember the pen is mightier than the sword, and the tongue is quicker than either of them. The old emperor was toppled by the Sand Wars, not Pepys.”

  “Regis was toppled by a shiv in the rib cage, as I recall.”

  A pause, then the broadcaster said, “They would never have gotten to him without help. The Dominion stood back and let it happen. And if Pepys is hiding a lost Knight, that would make my story all the more interesting. If he’s here, I’ll find him.”

  The girl in black allowed herself a fleeting smile. Not if she had anything to do with it! If Amber didn’t want to be found, she couldn’t be. Nor could Jack, if she could persuade him to go with her. Of that she had little doubt.

  She faded into the parallel corridor, running true to the false corridor the broadcaster and his crew stood in and made her way out of the emperor’s palace almost as easily as she’d made her way in.

  She took care to change her clothes before going to the barracks where Jack had been hidden for the past few days. As she crossed the grounds, the huge, multiwinged palace dwarfed her, its rose stone lending a sunset glow, and she looked up, involuntarily. She’d lived in the shadow of this building most of her life… but lived far, far away where it had existed only as a symbol of another life, a different kind of existence beyond that of the streets. Even now, as she crossed the lawns, she avoided all the cameras and sensors she could without making her avoidance noticeable. Jack sometimes called her paranoid. Amber called it being careful. She had no implanted ID chip, so even if the system picked her up, she couldn’t be immediately identified. Still…

  The scent of him filled her nostrils when she opened the door. He’d been marching and sweating, and though she could hear the refresher shower, he’d tossed his clothes onto the floor and they were full of his scent. She inhaled deeply, glad he was there. She realized how terribly empty she would be if he had not been.