Lasertown Blues Read online

  “I know. And that’s another reason we don’t want you with me. Why I don’t want you with me.” He dropped his pack and crossed the room back to her, and took her fists into his hands, and uncurled her hands, smoothing out her graceful fingers. He didn’t fear her—never had—even though he knew she could kill him with her mind. “You’re the only one who knows me and my story.”

  “I don’t know all of it. You’ve never told me.”

  “I’ve told you enough. If something happens to me, then you’ll have to tell Purple and you’ll have to find the answers, right? We can’t let it stop here.”

  “No.” There was a catch in her voice. She swallowed. “I can help you find Winton. I accessed him once over the network—I could do it again.”

  “Not until I know how he can come after us. He might be buried so deeply that the Emperor has no idea who he is or what he does… a minor bureaucrat… someone who knows me from the Sand Wars. Or maybe from Claron. But you, Amber, are to stay out of this until I start getting some answers. There are too many questions now and any one of them could be fatal if you repeat them to the wrong person.”

  “What about Daku?”

  “Daku is dead.”

  “And you were lucky.” Her pupils went wide as her temper flared. “You were lucky I was there!”

  “Maybe. All I know for sure is that he wasn’t hired because of Claron. He was shocked to know I was involved. Or, he was hired blind, so that he couldn’t possibly reveal the true motives if he failed. That would have been the smarter thing to do.”

  Amber pushed her hand through her hair, but the movement didn’t disguise the faint trembling. “Do they think that highly of you? That whatever assassin they send after you might fail?”

  He grinned, suddenly. “I don’t know. You do.” He leaned forward, kissed her on the end of her nose, picked up the duffel bag and fled before she could recover. He thought he could hear her thin voice through the walls as he strode away: “Damn you, anyway, Jack Storm!”

  A Dominion Knight wore his suit like a second skin. Jack preferred to keep his torso bare, the different clips and leads crimped to his skin kept a little looser and easier that way. The holograph that played over his body and then relayed the movement to the suit like a step-up transformer was bled out now—he had his helmet off and at his feet—but his suit was still quite effective. Cock and point a finger and his gauntlets were weapons. On his back, he could wear a field pack that would make him a devastating force. The only thing that could daunt him was a “red field,” a showing of gauges in the red, which would indicate that his power was so drained his suit would become nearly immobile, a burden that could cripple and ultimately destroy the soldier inside.

  Red fields were an armor wearer’s bane. They had become commonplace on Milos in spite of the solar panels in the helmet that took in a constant, but not great enough, charge. At the moment he had nothing to worry about but the boredom of staying at attention, his gaze flicking back and forth over the audience room of the Emperor of the Triad, Ultimate Commander of the Dominion Forces, Pepys.

  He wasn’t the only one on duty. Four of them took up the four corners of the room, each gathering his fair share of curious, and in some cases, hostile, glances. Jack delicately set his jaw. It wasn’t the stares so much as the comments, as though he were deaf as well as dumb.

  A tall, elegant woman, whose silver hair belied the crisp line of her chin and neck, glided past, escorted on the arm of a stout, aloof man. She paused. Her blue-eyed glance examined him thoroughly and her comments were not far different from those he’d been hearing all day.

  “So that’s one of them.”

  “It would appear, m’dear.” Her escort looked about the room, ill at ease with her refined gawking.

  “He looks clumsy. I should think Pepys would be better off with a good police robot.”

  He stroked her gloved hand. “Robots can’t keep up with human subtleties, m’dear. Look what happened to our late, lamented emperor. Artificial intelligence simply can’t comprehend us. A shiv was stuck through his ribs and pinned him to the throne before the robot perceived a threat.” He coughed into his free hand. “An example Pepys doesn’t wish to emulate.”

  “But after all these years…” Her voice trailed off, and then she sniffed. “He’s not bad looking, for all that.” Curiosity sated, she began moving forward then stopped again. “Good god, Murphy. He’s let one of the Walkers in for audience.”

  “Can’t keep ‘em out forever, m’dear.”

  Jack fought to keep his jawline steady. Murphy appeared indifferent to all the cruel stings of fate.

  “But he’s in line in front of us.”

  Jack did not quite hear Murphy’s response as the two pressed forward. He allowed himself the luxury of looking to the front where the aforementioned Walker patiently waited.

  Clothed all in blue, loose flowing robe over a miner’s jumpsuit, a bulky and crude hand-wrought cross hanging across his chest, the once handsome, now balding and aged man waited. Jack had seen him before. If he wasn’t mistaken, this particular Walker had waited for an audience the last five days. Jack had only had substitute duty one of those days, but the Walker prelate wasn’t one to overlook. Even if he had no other, patience was definitely this man’s virtue. Nor did he seem to take affront that Pepys was about to close the audience down, once again, without his having been received.

  “St. Colin of the Blue Wheel,” the announcer’s voice rang out, and the Walker started imperceptibly, then moved forward to the dais and the Emperor.

  Pepys, wiry and compact, of an age with the Walker, made a diffident movement with his hand. The announcer then said, “Audience closed for the day.”

  The Walker stayed behind as the hall emptied. Jack watched, the rest of his body as immobile as his expression was impassive, his surprise hidden. The Walker would get a private audience then. For a moment, he wished he had his helmet on, with mikes adjusted, just to hear what the two had to say to each other.

  The elegant woman dropped a glove as Murphy, visibly upset, urged her to the door. The glove wafted featherlike toward the floor. Jack moved then, fluid and powerful, and caught it before it touched.

  His speed and grace brought a startled sound from the woman and Jack allowed himself to smile. A small, but powerful, demonstration of his abilities. He handed her the glove. She snatched it away as though his gauntlet could burn and Murphy’s face blanched.

  They sped toward the closing doors.

  Jack returned to attention. He would not be off duty until Pepys released him.

  The emperor came off the dais and sat down at a small side table, where a silver pot steamed. He took his cap off, freeing his fine red hair, and beckoned for the Walker to join him. The two sat, drinking tea and conversing in small talk.

  Suddenly Pepys stood up. “You, you, and you, go. Captain Storm, please join us.”

  Jack picked up his helmet and moved across the now empty, massive audience hall. He was cautious. Walkers were believers, and beliefs could be dangerous.

  Pepys looked more irritated than alarmed as he joined them. “St. Colin, Captain Jack Storm, of my newly rejuvenated Dominion Knights.”

  “Your Grace, I hardly think this is a matter for a tank. Your undercover agents would be far more suited to—”

  “You brought this matter to me. I’ll handle it in whatever way I think appropriate.”

  “But these are men of God!”

  Jack watched St. Colin sit rigidly in his chair, every fiber of his being containing the outrage which had swept across his face and then abruptly been quelled. “How may I be of service?”

  St. Colin looked away, but not before Jack matched his fiery brown gaze. Jack felt a ripple of uneasiness.

  “St. Colin has come to me on a matter of some urgency. The Triad tolerates religious freedom, as it does any other, so long as the power struggles do not affect my rule.” He smiled thinly. “Although St. Colin would argue that God’s ru
le far precedes me.”

  “And he would be right, sir,” Jack answered.

  St. Colin’s gaze came back. This time, it had cooled and was taking his measure. The Walker’s right hand went to his cross and touched it lightly. “A historian and a scholar,” St. Colin said dryly, “hidden beneath that armor.”

  “Or not so hidden.” Pepys finished his tea. “I’ve seen the captain at work. He came to me highly recommended and graduated at the top of his training class. He will meet your needs, Colin, and with the discretion you require.”

  “I operate better knowing what I’m up against, Your Highness.”

  Pepys sputtered a little then, and laughed. “Patience is not one of his virtues. Tell him, St. Colin, what you told me.”

  The sainted one of the Walkers sat back in his chair, his square body tense under his blue robes. He did not look like he had been a saint long. “Where are you from, captain?”

  Jack’s jaw muscle clenched, then released. If he told the truth, Dorman’s Stand, Pepys would be alerted instantly to his unusual background. Dorman’s Stand hadn’t been habitable by human standards for twenty years. Yet, these two men had an uncanny way of picking out the truth. If they did not, they would not be as high in the power echelon as they were. “An outlying agrarian planet. I’m a farm boy,” and he grinned, using one of Amber’s favorite dissembling tricks. He wished she were with him now, to distract St. Colin’s level brown stare.

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “My family was.”

  “Then you’re familiar with the Walker sect.”

  “Somewhat. I know that your primary goal is to verify that your religious figure did indeed walk on other worlds, to ‘prepare other rooms in my Father’s mansion,’ I believe the quote is interpreted.”

  St. Colin slapped a hand down on the chair arm. “That’s it! And we are primarily scholars and archaeologists, no more, no less.”

  Pepys stirred. “You belittle yourself, sir. Your religious web is woven throughout every planet touched by exploration—and, theoretically, can extend throughout the universe.”

  They looked at one another. The man who physically ruled the stars, and the other who spiritually could.

  “It is to no one’s good,” St. Colin said tightly, “if we participate in another religious crusade.”

  Jack’s memory flicked back and he thought of the militaristic Walker he’d seen in the bar where Daku ambushed him. He said, “I take it you’re worried about a splinter group within your ranks, one more militarily inclined.”

  “Why, yes.” St. Colin looked up rapidly. “But this is a matter for covert intelligence, not for a soldier in—in battle armor.”

  Jack smiled. “Why not use your own intelligence?”

  “Because the fervor is spreading through our ranks like wildfire. The archaeological evidence we seek evades us. The sect grows old and tired and disillusioned. A crusade of conversion, at any cost, appeals to many among us.”

  Pepys cleared his throat. “Are you interested, Jack?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Please consult with the Purple before you go out on your own. Report to me as soon as possible. Dismissed.”

  As he walked away, the armor making powerful thuds upon the flooring, he thought he heard St. Colin protest faintly, followed by Pepys’ comforting murmur, “My dear saint, I think he intends to take the armor off, first.” Then, “I hear you have a new site to excavate. Anything interesting?”

  “Yes, quite, but getting permission to dig has been nearly impossible…”

  The voices faded behind him.

  Jack felt that his assignment would be easy. Too easy. The superstitious prickle along his spine kept him alert.

  The bartender looked at him as he came in. It was the same one who’d been on duty when Daku had tried to take him out, but he showed no recognition of Jack. Jack went to a booth in the back, where he could keep an eye on the door, and pretended to be drinking.

  Three Walkers came in during the course of the evening. None left.

  Jack went back to the palace thinking again that it was too easy. He rousted out the Purple.

  “I’ve got the contact site.”

  “Are they hiring mercenaries or just meeting?”

  “My guess is just meeting.”

  The Purple rubbed his temple soulfully. He sighed. “We’ve caught them early, then.”

  “Unless it’s a blind.”

  “I don’t think Colin would want to expose his organization like that, unless he were really worried about trouble. Do you want to have the bar staked out?”

  Jack licked his lips. “We have to know the meeting night. Computer surveillance would be too obvious and too easily detected and can be too easily bypassed, with the right know-how.” An electronic sweep would tip Jack’s hand. He had to have live bodies.

  “Then do it. Handpick those you want with you, but don’t let them know what they’re doing. I know a few who would join the Walkers rather than pick them up.”

  “Right.” Jack disconnected the com lines.

  Garner licked dry lips. He ran his palm along his spiked haircut and his asphalt dark eyes glittered suspiciously. “You want me to go in without a suit?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  He licked his lips again. Then, reluctantly, “I’m nothing without a suit, captain. Nothin’.”

  “That’s not true, Garner. And whatever our differences, I know this is an operation you can do. All you need to do is observe. Later, we’ll go in with the suits.”

  “If there is a later.” The man hesitated, then nodded abruptly. “I’ll do it, but I’m warning you, Silent Jack. I’ll come after you if I have to.”

  Jack felt an inner warmth. He returned the nod like a salute. “And I’d expect nothing less from you.”

  The man received the address and time of his assignment stoically, his decision having been made. Jack made a notation on his clipboard after Garner left. Everything was coordinated.

  Once he got the information he needed, he would call Purple again. Then Garner would get permission to put on his battle armor and go in.

  St. Colin of the Blue Wheel swallowed tightly, his eyelids scraped by the rough blindfold that covered them. He thought bitterly to himself that it must be made from a hairshirt. Even if he lived through the kidnapping, his eyes would be scratched for months.

  “Come on, old man.”

  The ironlike claw at his elbow jerked him forward from the commuter car. He had a moment for a brief thought, like a prayer sent adrift on the wind, that he had hesitated too long in going to Pepys. Then that moment was gone, as his kidnappers shoved him inside a doorway. He went to his knees, stumbling, his mind protesting over having been called an old man, but his body surrendering. A chute opened up as his knees hit and he dropped into the air.

  “We don’t want him dead. Yet.” A new voice bit the air as he hit bottom and lay on his side, gasping. Colin let the owner of the new voice help him to his feet and shuddered slightly as someone ripped off his blindfold. He sucked in his breath and began praying, barely audibly, “The Lord is my shepherd…”

  The renegades ignored him, for that’s what they were—a room full of arrogant, heavily armed renegades who made Colin want to shade his eyes from their too bright stares. He knew what they wanted: a Christian Empire based on the archaeological findings to date and he remembered the horrible crusades in their ancient history that gave him reason to be afraid. The heavy cross swung at his neck, suddenly a tremendous weight. His beleaguered eyes dewed.

  Then Colin remembered that he’d been called a saint within his lifetime and straightened, thrusting his shoulders back. “You’re fools. Pepys knows of your ambitions. And I won’t have you warping the purpose of our order this way.”

  “You’re too late, old man. We’ve got an assassin within the palace walls right now. By the time Pepys knows what’s happening, neither his understanding nor his tin men are going to save him.”


  Colin swung to his right. In the shadowy storeroom, he saw cases of liquor and other sundries and knew he was below a bar. He also recognized, here and there, a face. One or two even startled him. He made a noise in his throat, then said, “Triad leaders are like sharks’ teeth. Pull one and another will spring into his place. Perhaps one not quite so tolerant of your practices. Do you think Pepys was surprised when I told him that we had developed problems?”

  “And do you think we’re surprised that you went running to him? Now shut up and go sit down in that corner. Your life depends upon it.”

  Colin turned and looked at the hawk-nosed man who pointed. “Walker, do I know you?”

  “Not yet.” He bared white teeth in a thin-lipped smile. “But you will. For after this night, we will use you to keep the undecided in line—you are, after all, sometimes called a saint. And you will tell them what I want you to. We’ll be working very closely together.”

  Colin fought the impulse to squeeze his abused eyes tightly shut. But he met the man’s belligerent stare. “You will,” he said, “be amazed at what I can do when cornered.” He saw the backhanded blow begin, a muscle twitch in the shoulderline of the jumpsuit, a bunching of fabric across the biceps—he had enough time to react and it was his assailant’s turn to be surprised as Colin unleashed finely trained reactions.

  He caught the wrist, turned it and used the man’s weight to flip him, facedown, onto the floor. A prickling of fear gathered between his shoulder blades as he sensed the others gathering to attack him.

  “Hold it right there!”

  He never heard them coming—silent as shadows, out of the corners of the room. Then the room’s walls exploded and more came, through the walls—the Emperor’s new guards, massive and impassive, and the renegade Walkers folded quietly, without a fight.

  The tall one in white pushed up his face plate like a visor and eyed him. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” He looked down in surprise to see his right foot planted firmly on his assailant’s shoulder, the man’s wrist still locked in his hand. He let go and backed up.