Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

A disk of static appeared, a hazy oval that flickered through so many colors so quickly that the eye could only read it as grey: the system had made contact. “Hally?”

A face took shape, forming from the disk itself, so that it became a mask hanging in space, a face thin and rather fine beneath the canalli weathering. Earrings gleamed in both ears, and a fine chain–a datawire, Ransome guessed–ran from one particularly elaborate stud to a jewel‑rimmed socket at the inner corner of his right eye. The iridescent strand seemed to glow against his pale brown skin. “Ransome?” Thin, delicately arched eyebrows rose in surprise, then contracted into a frown. “I’m watching a Game,” Hally Ventura said, and broke off, seeing the face in his own screens.

“From Shadows?” Ransome asked, and was answered by a brief, lopsided smile.

“That’s right. So what do you want to know about her, I‑Jay?”

“What do you know?”

“About what everyone does. She’s been a name on Callixte, everyone says a notable‑to‑be. And she’s a pilot, union pilot, also works out of Callixte for that. Angele up at the port says her ship’s in for repairs, and she’s come to play. People’ve been at her to quit space, go into the Game full time, but she’s not been interested.”

“Piloting’s a good job,” Ransome said. “I’d think twice before I quit.”

Hally shrugged. “She’s very, very good at the Game.” His eyes shifted, looking at something outside his own display. “Look, I‑Jay, I want to watch this session. Was that all?”

“I just thought, if anyone knew anything, it would be you,” Ransome said, and was rewarded by a quick smile: the apology was acceptable. “Thanks, Hally.”

“Not at all,” Hally answered, and the hanging mask dissolved into the oval of static. Ransome cut the connection.

The Game session floated back in front of him, expanded at a gesture to display its full detail. Belfortune sat with his head in his hands, answered, low‑voiced, Lord Faro’s questions. The tension between them was palpable: the players’ affair had been over for years, but its memory still informed their play. Mijja Lyall, the scientist/technician, watched uneasily, her gaze flickering between the two men and the metal face that hung on the wall overhead. Baron Vortex, the Game’s great villain, was overseeing this himself.

Ransome frowned, reached for the library icons, and had to shuffle access spaces until he found dead storage. It had been a long time since he had gone looking for his template libraries. He flicked them back into the working volume, searched the most recent issues until he found Lord Faro’s listing. He had forgotten that Faro had become one of the Baron’s henchmen–that had happened almost two years ago, just after he’d quit the Game. He leaned back in his chair, the images tilting around him, and saw another firework flare through the pattern of the Game. You couldn’t ask for better, he thought, and reached for a hand‑held remote to summon the drinks tray.

The machine trundled over, the lid sliding back to give access to the freezer compartment. Ransome chose abstractedly, opened the container, his eyes still on the session unfolding in front of him. Faro was clearly torn between his loyalty to Baron Vortex–a loyalty bought with fear and the promise that Faro’s lost estates would someday be returned–and his– love? desire?–for Belfortune. Belfortune clearly shared both passion and fear, and Baron Vortex watched from the wall. Lioe was handling him well, he admitted grudgingly. Too many leaders made the Baron too villainous right from the start; Lioe was keeping him just reasonable enough–though still with that edge of madness–that it seemed suicidal to oppose him.

Abruptly, he wanted to be there, at Shadows, watching firsthand–or, better still, to be in the control booth with Medard‑Yasine. It was the first time in three years that he’d actually wanted to attend a Game, and his lips quirked upward as he realized that at least he now had an excuse for doing what Chauvelin wanted. He closed both fists, shutting down the system–in the corner of his eye, glyphs tumbled headlong as the slaved machines ran through their shutdown procedures–and reached for a stand‑alone com‑unit and punched codes that would cycle through the helicab companies until he found one that could respond. It took perhaps two minutes, the bar of light flashing in front of him, not quite blocking his sight, and he spent the time searching for his jacket and the cylinder of Mist he was forced to carry. The com‑unit beeped at him before he found the red‑banded tube, and he scrabbled impatiently for the hand‑held unit.

“How can we be of service?”

It was a machine voice, or so the telltale at the base of the unit said–it would have been impossible to tell from the sound alone. Ransome curbed his impatience, and smoothed his tone to be as emotionless as possible. “I need transport to the helipad closest to Shadows–Face Road, by the center of the Dike in the Dock Road District. I think that’s Underface.”

“Just a moment, please.” There was a little silence, not even the hiss of static, while Ransome scanned the cluttered space of his loft for the missing cylinder, and then the machine said, “Yes, Underface is closest. Your location code is Warehouse?”

“That’s right.” The cylinder was lying on the shelf beside the shell for the Syndic’s egg.

“Thank you. Your helicab will arrive at the Warehouse helipad in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks,” Ransome said, in spite of himself, in spite of knowing it was a machine, and broke the connection. He collected the cylinder, shoved it and his credimeters into the pocket of his jacket, and left the loft.

It took him almost fifteen minutes to reach the helipad–the computers were scrupulous in their calculations–and he barely had time to catch his breath before he heard the soft beat of the muted rotors. Somewhat to his surprise, there was a live pilot, who grinned cheerfully at him as she popped the passenger hatch.

“To Underface, right? Going to Shadows?”

Does everyone on the planet know about this fucking game? Ransome wondered. “Yes, to Underface–and, yes, to Shadows, too.”

The pilot nodded, closing the hatch behind him. “I hear there’s one hell of a session in progress there. You’re like the fifth person I’ve dropped there in the last two hours.”

“Really.” Ransome settled into the center seat, the most comfortable of the three, and adjusted the door controls so that the whole panel went transparent, an enormous curved window on the city spread out below the cliff face.

“Yeah.” The pilot manipulated her controls, and the helicab lifted easily, pivoting toward the cliff edge and the descent to Underface. She was on‑line, Ransome saw, bound into the cab’s systems so that her arms and legs seemed to end in the black boxes of the control consoles; more wires, a complex, braided band of them, fell from the junction box at the base of her skull. Her hair was shaved around that connection, but the rest of it fell in a scarlet tail from an untidy topknot. “I wish I wasn’t working.”

“You’re a Gamer, then?” Ransome asked, and saw, too late, the pins studding her left sleeve. MI‑Net, Court Life V, Vimar Nessen’s Game, RedApple, Old Network, and dozens of others: she was a Gamer, all right, and a committed one.

She didn’t seem offended, however, just shrugged that shoulder to make the pins glitter in the light from the instrument panel. “That’s right.”

“So what have you heard about this Lioe?” Ransome asked. This wasn’t his style at all–this was the kind of information he preferred to find on the nets–but the chance was too good to pass up.

The pilot shrugged again, both shoulders this time. “What haven’t I heard, really? Frederick’s Glory got an Adouble‑star on Callixte, which those judges don’t hand out like candy, and she wrote it. She’s supposed to just be running a sample session for Davvi tonight, but what everyone’s saying is that it’s turning out to be something kind of special.” She looked sideways, into the space that showed her the passenger camera view. “What I heard from one woman was, she’s pulled one of Ambidexter’s characters out of storage, playing him as a major character.”

Ransome nodded, caught up in spite of himself in the old habits of the Game. “Desir of Harmsway. I was watching for a while on the nets.”

“ Sha‑mai.” The pilot’s curse was more admiring than anything. “Ambidexter’s going to murder her. Very God, I wish I wasn’t working.”

Ransome gave her a bitter grin. If he’d ever wanted confirmation of how the white‑sickness had changed him in the past three years, he had it now–not that he’d really needed it. Even a year ago, before the disease really took hold, she would have recognized him as Ambidexter, even if he hadn’t been in the clubs for a year or so before that… He shook the thought away, annoyed that he’d even acknowledged it, made himself pay attention to the pilot.

“That’s assuming Ambidexter’s still around, of course,” she went on, quite cheerfully. “There was talk he was dead, not long back.”

“I don’t think so,” Ransome said, with involuntary pique, and the pilot shrugged again. The helicab banked sideways into the airpath that paralleled the Old Dike; its lights, and the glow of the shops on Warden Street, filled the cab’s interior with patches of bright color.

“The work on the nets under that name hasn’t been very like him, that’s for sure.”

Ransome drew breath for an indignant response– how dare she accuse me of not being myself?–and stopped suddenly, wondering if this was Cella’s doing. It wouldn’t be unlike her, to whisper that he was dead, that his work was not his own. He opened his mouth, trying to figure out how to phrase the question, but the helicab tilted again, and he realized that the pilot’s attention was once again on her craft. After a moment, his mouth twisted into a wry smile. That would be very like Cella, to assume that the rumor of his death would bring him back onto the nets– and it would have worked, too, if I hadn’t been so busy with other things.

The helicab tipped again, responding to wind or air currents or an unseen traffic signal, and the door panel was filled with the city lights. Ransome stared, caught once again by the breathtaking beauty: the tidy geometry of the well‑lit squares and canals of Dock Road, bounded by the twin lines of the Straight to the north and the Crooked to the south. In the distance, the broad triangle that was the landformed extension of Mainwarden Island jutted into the Water, dividing the massive stream into two channels. A line of light ran from apex to base, broke slightly at the edge of the low cliff that rose to Mainwarden Island proper: Compass Road, where the Lockwarden Society had their main offices. The Society’s certification officers, the elite of the Wet Districts around the Water, generally lived in the tidy, decent neighborhoods to either side of that main thoroughfare. The Great Island light blazed at steady intervals from the tip of the Extension, directing the all‑but‑invisible traffic that filled the Water even at this hour.

“Coming down,” the pilot said, her voice distant and professional again. The helicab straightened and slowed to hover, almost motionless. Ransome craned his neck to see through the lower curve of the door, and could just make out the blue concentric lines of the helipad below them. One band of light blinked, as though something had moved across it, and a moment later another one did the same. Kids, probably, Ransome thought, and in the same instant a strong white light flashed from the cab’s underbelly, all but drowning out the landing lines. Ransome saw a last small figure scramble over the low barrier. The pilot smiled, and the helicab began to sink delicately toward the ground. They touched down almost without a thud, and the credit reader unfolded itself from the wall of the passenger compartment, beeping politely but insistently. Ransome fed his card through the reader, winced slightly when the total was presented, but touched the confirmation code without further protest. The door opened, and Ransome swung himself out onto the brightly lit pavement. The cab lifted away as soon as he was clear, trailing a diminishing cone of light.

It was not a long walk from the Underface helipad to Shadows, but Ransome felt his lungs clog and falter, stopped in the mouth of a half‑enclosed courtyard to breathe from the cylinder of Mist. He grimaced at the bitter taste, grimaced again as the drug took hold, the cold pain clearing his lungs. He waited a moment longer, listening to a strand of distant music, a single violo drawn against the night, that floated down from somewhere above him, closer to the base of the Dike. The pain faded, and he kept walking. Shadows appeared out of the darkness a few minutes later, all its windows unshuttered and blazing with light, a suppressed excitement humming in the air around it. Even the food shop across the intersection seemed quiet by comparison, both the bouncers, conspicuous in their rusty black jerkins and studded wristbands, sitting comfortably in chairs just outside the doorway, a thermoflask on the ground between them.

There was no trouble gaining admission to the club, despite the crowd that overflowed from the main lobby into the access hall. Most of them wanted only to maintain their view of the large display screens, and were perfectly willing to let Ransome past as long as he showed no desire to linger. He fetched up against the far wall, beside the little office. The dreamy‑eyed woman behind the counter only reluctantly took her attention from the display board balanced in her lap.

“What can I do for you?”

“Is Davvi here?”

The abrupt request raised her eyebrows, and then she frowned, visibly searching her memory to match the face in front of her. Ransome smiled, unable to keep the expression from turning sour, and said, “Tell him Ambidexter’s here.”

The dreamy eyes widened almost comically. “At once, N’Ambidexter. It’s good to see you back again.”

A few of the Gamers close to the desk heard the name even over the direct‑input sound from the room systems, and turned to look. Ransome met the stares blandly, and turned his attention to the displays overhead. In the screens, Gallio Hazard confronted a figure he didn’t recognize, an enormously fat man in prison clothes. Bricks and stones, a halo of debris, floated in the air around him, and Ransome realized that the fat man was a telekinetic.

“She is good, isn’t she?” Davvi Medard‑Yasine had come quietly through the door that led to the session rooms, and smiled at Ransome’s shrug.

“So far, yes,” Ransome answered. “Look, Davvi, I need a favor.”

“You can ask,” Medard‑Yasine answered, but his smile widened.

“I want to watch, up close. Can you get me into the control room?”

“I figured,” Medard‑Yasine said. “Come on.”

He led the way through the door and into the depths of the club. These hallways were less crowded, but in nearly every side room a group had gathered around the VDIRT tables, and the same tiny figures moved in each tabletop display. The central courtyard was busier than Ransome had ever seen it, groups standing three deep at the larger tables there. Security was standing outside the control room, a thin unsmiling woman with specialists’ badges on her shoulders, and the Gamers who had ventured into this area gave her a wide berth. They clustered at the far end of the hall, where someone had hooked a trio of series‑linked Gameboards into a datanode, dividing their attention between the display screens and the door that led to the control areas. Medard‑Yasine ignored them, said something quietly to Security, who nodded and stood back from the door controls. Ransome waited while Medard‑Yasine keyed the entrance codes, looking politely down the hall away from the keypad. The people on the edges of the group looked back at him, frankly curious, and a couple of them put their heads together, murmuring to each other. Ransome smiled then, and a woman in the front row nudged the man next to her. Her voice carried quite clearly: “That’s Ambidexter, I’m sure of it.”

“You’ve been found out,” Medard‑Yasine said cheerfully, and pushed open the door.

Ransome followed him into the control room, crowded with Gamers and display equipment. A massive VDIRT table, twice as large as most club models, dominated the room; the scenario played in the air above the tabletop, the images almost solid enough to block out the real objects behind them, and the virtual screens in the tabletop itself glimmered with technical displays. Ransome glanced quickly at them, skimming the lines of symbols, looked away again to scan the crowd. Most of the Dock Road notables were here, all right–and there were maybe a dozen of them; Dock Road was a Gamer’s ghetto, especially around Underface–and the flickering tie‑in lights on the wall consoles meant that a lot more people were tapping in through MI‑Net. He looked sideways, at Medard‑Yasine, and saw a faint, feline smile of satisfaction on the other man’s face. Ransome touched his forehead in acknowledgment, and turned his attention to the Game.

–

Interlude

Game/varRebel.2. 04/

subPsi. 1.22/ver22. 1/ses 1.26

They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay, hearing the clatter of boots on the walkways to either side. The overhanging shelves, piled high with crates, gave some cover, but they all knew that if the Baron’s guards came out onto the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being seen. Galan Africa/JAFIERA ROSCHA worked frantically at the powerpack of their only heavy laser, trying to mate a salvaged blaster cell into the nonstandard housing. Mijja Lyall/FERNESA crouched at his side, unable to concentrate on either the gun or on Jack Blue/VERE CAMINESI, who sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of crates. His bulk had displaced the lowest one slightly, and Gallio Hazard/IMBERTINE gave the whole stack a wide berth, kneeling well clear of its line of fall, his pistol drawn and cocked. He had laid the fresh clip on the decking beside him, ready for use. Lord Faro/PETER SAVIAN and Ibelin Belfortune/KAZIO BELEDIN crouched as always a little apart from the rest, Faro a little ahead of the wild‑eyed Belfortune, as though he could somehow protect him.

“Where the hell is this contact?” Desir of Harmsway/ALAZAIS MARICHE hissed, his light pistol already drawn and ready. “Come on, Avellar, you can explain this one, too.”

Avellar/GARET HUARD ignored him, went to kneel on the warped flooring beside Jack Blue. “How is it?” he said, as much to Lyall as to Blue, but it was the telekinetic who answered.

“Not so good.” Blue’s voice was thin and wheezy, and Lyall shook her head, reaching into the much‑depleted medical kit.

“If you weren’t so damn fat,” Harmsway sneered, and Blue frowned sharply. A cracked piece of the floor tiling snapped loose and flung itself at Harmsway’s face. He ducked away from it, but it still struck him a grazing blow along one cheekbone, raising a thin line of blood. Avellar snatched the falling tile before it could hit anything else.

“That’s why I’m so damn fat,” Blue said. The mass a telekinetic could move was directly related to his/her body weight; that he could throw even a kilogram, exhausted as he was, was the direct result of his obesity.

“Save your strength,” Avellar said to Blue, and looked at Harmsway. “The ship is there, Desir, and my contact’s waiting. Go right ahead.”

Harmsway looked longingly at the cargo door, just twenty meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open, the ship’s hatch gleaming in the loading lights, and he could feel that the last barrier was sealed only with a simple palm lock, the kind of thing he could open in his sleep… if he could only get there. His lips thinned, and he looked away.

“Avellar.” Lyall’s voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and Avellar swung to face her.

“I think–” Lyall began, then shook her head. “No, I’m sure. They’ve brought in a hunter.”

Harmsway swore, and Hazard looked back over his shoulder at him.

Africa said, as if he didn’t really want to know, “Hunter?”

“Another telepath,” Blue said. “One who specializes in sensing out his own kind.”

“How close?” Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head again.

“I can’t tell. He–she–it’s shielded.”

Avellar’s lips tightened, and he looked at the two men who stood apart from the rest. Faro shifted his position slightly, almost in spite of himself, putting himself between Avellar and Belfortune. Belfortune did not seem to notice, but his free hand rose to the stained bandage on his left shoulder, pressed hard as though that would ease the pain. Avellar lifted a hand and looked instead at Africa. “How’s it coming, Galan?”

The technician shrugged, his hands never slowing on the balky connection. “We won’t know until I try to use it. I think I’ve got it.”

Avellar grimaced, looked back at Belfortune. “Bel.”

“Let him be,” Faro said. Belfortune passed his hand over his face, then reached for the gun he had laid beside him on the tiles. He still would not meet Avellar’s eyes.

“Bel,” Avellar said again. “We need you.”

“There’s nothing I can do.” Belfortune spoke flatly, without lifting his eyes from the floor. His useless left hand was tucked into the front of his jacket, held as if in a crude sling.

“Bullshit,” Harmsway said. “That’s fucking bullshit, and you know it. Just because you don’t like thinking you’re one of us, just because you and him”–his free hand swept out to indicate Lord Faro, who lifted an arrogant eyebrow in response–“have had the Baron’s favor, you don’t want to admit what you are. You could get us all killed, or you could save us. You’re a vampire, damn you, and right now that could save all our lives.”

Belfortune’s good hand closed convulsively over the gun, and he brought it up in a single smooth motion, leveling it at Harmsway. Harmsway stared back at him unmoving, handsome face set in his mask of habitual contempt. Avellar stirred, but said nothing after all.

“I’m not a vampire,” Belfortune said after a moment, and the gun’s muzzle wavered and fell. “Yes, I’m psi, I’ve never denied it–”

“Like hell,” Harmsway said.

Belfortune swept on as though he hadn’t spoken. “–but I’m only an interference maker. All I can do is fuck up somebody trying to use their psi. I can’t stop them. I can’t take their power away.”

“But you can.” Lyall’s voice was very soft, but they all heard her. “The tests were conclusive, I was there, I ran them. When you want to, you can stop all psi use cold.”

“And then what?” Belfortune asked. He smiled bitterly, without a trace of humor. “That’s the part no one ever asks about, do they, Mijja? Because what happens is they die. I take their power, and they die without it.”

“Bel.” Faro’s voice was gentle, as though there was no one else near them, and all the time in the world.

“You know what happens.” Belfortune’s voice scaled upward, toward hysteria. “You know how they die. Oh, God, the taste of it in my mind–”

Faro reached out to him, but Harmsway cut him off. “Jesus Christ. It’s a hunter. And if you don’t kill him, we’re dead.”

“Shut up, Desir,” Avellar said. He looked at Belfortune. “Bel–”

Belfortune shook his head. “I can’t, Avellar. Not won’t. I can’t do it.”

“Let it be,” Faro said, with unexpected authority. He and Avellar locked stares for a moment, and then Avellar turned away.

“Ready,” Africa said, and held out the laser. Hazard took it warily, slipped his pistol and its spare clip back onto his belt.

“What do we do now, Avellar?” he said.

“Without Belfortune–” Lyall began, and broke off with a gasp.

Avellar took a deep breath. “We have to get on board the ship. And if the Baron’s brought in a hunter, they’ll know where we are any minute now. We’ll have to fight.”

“What a wonderful plan,” Harmsway jeered. “And how typical of your planning. Damn you, Royal, why didn’t you leave me here?”

Avellar looked at him, face absolutely without emotion. “I told you once, I need you, need your talent. I can’t take the throne without your help.”

Africa looked up as though he’d been stung, and Hazard spoke quickly, cutting off anything the technician might have said. “But to fight, Royal?”

Jack Blue said, “He’s right, Avellar. The odds aren’t in our favor.”

Avellar looked at Belfortune. “You hear them, Belfortune. It’s your choice.”

“I can’t,” Belfortune said, his voice little louder than a whisper. “I can’t.”

“He’s found us,” Lyall said. Her eyes were closed, face furrowed with concentration as she brought her minimal telepathy to bear on the problem. “He’s at the east entrance, and the chase squads are joining him.”

“Oh, shit,” Harmsway said. “Shit, shit, shit.” He flung himself out from under the shelter of the shelves, started down the corridor toward the eastern entrance. Overhead, a light fixture exploded in a shower of sparks; to his left, a cargo robot spun awkwardly on its treads, and started toward the entrance as well. Fat sparks gathered around him, snapped from his fingers and flickered away from him across the metal shelves and the walkways overhead as he tapped into and overloaded the cargo bay’s electrical systems. He turned down the first side corridor, and vanished.

“Desir–!” Avellar began, closed his mouth over whatever he would have said. “Hazard, get after him, get him back if you can.”

Hazard nodded. “But not for you, Royal,” he said, and started after the electrokinetic, the laser still gripped in his hands.

Avellar looked down at Belfortune, who still crouched against the cases. “Damn you to hell, Belfortune,” he whispered. “Give me a reason I shouldn’t kill you now.”

Belfortune did not answer, did not even seem to hear, and Faro said, “You pushed him too hard, Avellar, you and Harmsway. If you’d given me time–”

Avellar stared at him for an instant, but then nodded, acknowledging the rebuke. “All right,” he said, “get moving, all of you. Head for the hatch.”

“We can still back him up,” Africa said.

Blue shook his head, said, in a voice suddenly as old and tired as he looked, “He’s dead, man. They’re both dead. They’ll be on him in a minute.”

As if to underscore his words, the whine of laser fire sounded from somewhere near the east entrance, followed a moment later by the distinctive crack as an electrokinetically induced overload destroyed a laser’s powerpack.

Avellar winced. “All we can do now,” he said, “is get to the ship.”

“He’s right,” Blue said, and hauled himself to his feet, steadied by Lyall and Africa. “Let’s go.”

–

Game/VarRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.27

Harmsway moved through the corridors in a hailstorm of electricity, glorying in a strength and skill he hadn’t known he possessed. Lights exploded overhead, spilled streamers of fire from the open circuits; he caught and shaped that inchoate power into bolts, and flung them in the faces of the Baron’s troops as they moved to engage him. Outside the sphere of his influence, lights flickered, control panels flashing yellow and red as he overloaded the system. He felt it, reached out to compensate, groping for access to the main power grid.

The first laser bolt spun him sideways into a stack of crates. He caught himself against their metal sides, electricity crackling unheeded from his hands, turned to point at the soldier, using his finger as focus and guide for his power. Stored electricity leaped from the nearest output node, flashed along his arm and across the intervening meters to strike the laser’s powerpack. It blew in a sheet of flame, and the soldier fell, screaming. Harmsway caught his breath, aware of a new pain in his chest, tried to flex his shoulder and failed, and shrugged the other shoulder and kept walking, back toward the east entrance where the hunter had been waiting.

There were more of the Baron’s guard waiting around the next corner, crouched behind the shield of a heavy gatling. Harmsway took a deep breath that burned in his lungs, concentrated, and reached out for the gun’s control circuits. The guards fired in the same instant, a brief hail of lead before Harmsway found the gatling’s electronics and destroyed the system. They had barely had time to aim, but two of the bullets struck his hip and leg. He staggered against the nearest stack of crates, tried to take a step, and fell, sliding against the bare metal until he was barely sitting, propped up against the crates. The first of the two surviving soldiers leveled his laser. Harmsway fought back the pain, and reached for the nearest output node. He drew power from it, but his side and leg burned and throbbed, and the electricity streamed out uncontrolled, writhed across the intervening metal of the floor like a fiery snake. The soldiers fell back for a moment, but then the second man, better protected by the gatling’s smoking carcass, raised his laser again. There were more soldiers coming up the corridor behind him, and an airsled rode in their midst: the Baron himself was coming to see the end of the hunt. Harmsway braced himself to die.

Hazard rounded the last corner at that moment, and the soldiers swung instinctively to cover him. He took in the situation at a glance–Harmsway down, blood and burned flesh everywhere, the soldiers with leveled lasers and the rest of the troop coming up behind them–and started to raise his heavy laser for the last time.

“Don’t shoot,” a whispering voice said from the airsled’s closed cabin, and Hazard froze. Harmsway made a small, painful sound, but the voice went on anyway, as though no one had spoken. “Hazard, you’re not a fool. Put down your gun, and I’m sure we can come to some agreement.”

Hazard hesitated, the muzzle of the gun wavering slightly–to fire was suicide, his and Harmsway’s, but the speaker was Baron Vortex, and his word could never be trusted.

“Your friend is badly hurt, maybe dying,” the voice went on. “But he could be saved. Put down your gun, Gallio Hazard, and I’ll see that he lives.”

“And me?” Hazard asked, with a short laugh.

“And you,” the voice agreed. “Both of you will live.”