A Dark and Hungry God Arises Page 7

Straightening his shoulders, he walked the last meters to the strongroom which served as the Bill’s personal command center, and grinned sardonically at the door guard.

  Unlike Nick’s escort, this individual cradled his beam gun in his hands. He didn’t appear normal, however. Except for his mouth, most of his face had been covered or replaced by scanning equipment. Red and amber lights winked cryptically at his temples. The Bill didn’t entrust his own security to the bugeyes—the optical monitors and listening devices—which scrutinized and reported on all the rest of Billingate.

  On the wall over the door was a sign that read:

  I’M THE BILL YOU OWE. IF YOU DON’T PAY ME, YOU DON’T LEAVE.

  Apparently none of the guards needed to announce Nick aloud. Their transmitters did the job inaudibly. After a moment’s consultation, the scan-guard keyed the door and admitted Nick to the strongroom.

  His escort stayed behind. He did his best to saunter inside without them like a man who owed nothing.

  The room was large enough to be a cargo hold. The Bill liked to have space about him, perhaps to counteract the claustrophobic depth of his covert. The flat surrounding walls were featureless, however. In fact, they were barely lit. Most of the illumination came from a set of ceiling spots which focused down on the Bill himself.

  If recent events disturbed him, he didn’t show it. Alone in his command center, he stood encircled by a neat ring of computer stations, gleaming under the spots: boards, terminals, screens, and readouts which, presumably, kept him in contact with every part of Billingate. The grotesque length of his head was mimicked by the rest of his body: he was insatiably thin. Stark in the light, he looked hungry enough to suck the marrow from Nick’s bones. Shadows filled the hollows of his cheeks. Arms like sticks supported hands with fingers as sharp and narrow as styluses. Under his dirty hair and glittering eyes, his lipless smile exposed his keen, crooked teeth.

  As if in welcome, he spread his arms. “Captain Nick,” he said in his incongruously boyish voice. “How nice to see you. You haven’t been away all that long—not as long as some—but it’s always a pleasure when you visit.

  “I gather you’ve led an interesting life recently. It isn’t every day that you arrive here escorted”—he relished the irony of the word—“by Amnion defensives. You must tell me all about it sometime.

  “But not now,” he added quickly, like a solicitous host. “I know how busy you must be. For the present, tell me how I can serve you. Somewhere here, we have”—he made a gesture which seemed to encompass the galaxy—“everything you can pay for.”

  Nick was in no mood for blather. Nevertheless his ship—as well as his life—depended on his ability to match the Bill. Deliberately casual, he remarked, “That depends on how much money I’ve got. I have a credit-jack”—Nick named the sum—“but Operations tells me you won’t honor it. That limits my options.”

  “‘Won’t,’ Captain Nick?” the Bill put in promptly. “Surely Operations didn’t say ‘won’t’?”

  Nick tried to grin with his old, dangerous amusement. “Maybe I’ve missed something. I requested a shipyard berth. They docked me with the visitors.” A little of his anger leaked into his voice, but he kept it quiet. “And they told me my credit-jack has been revoked. Doesn’t that mean ‘won’t’?”

  “Not at all, not at all.” Whenever the Bill moved his head, the light made his face look like it was being eaten by shadows. “It simply means the situation has become delicate. The ‘issuing authority’ of that credit-jack has ‘instructed’ us not to honor it.” Apparently the Bill enjoyed euphemisms. “This is not strictly—shall we say, not strictly legal? If it were, no one would ever pay me for anything. Men in your position—not you, of course, Captain Nick, certainly not, but men with fewer scruples—would give me credit for goods or services, and then after they were gone they would simply ‘revoke’ my remuneration.

  “I don’t do business that way. I’m the Bill you owe, Captain Nick.” Behind his light, enthusiastic tone, he was fatally serious. “That means I get paid first—and I make sure the money is good before I accept it. If I accept your credit-jack, you can be certain the Amnion will honor it.”

  “Fine,” Nick said, “good.” His poise was fraying. He would have loved to hit the Bill a few times and hear those thin bones snap. “How do we get there from here? I need repairs. I have a credit-jack to pay for them. But you’re suspicious. Now what?”

  “Simplicity itself.” The Bill smiled so that his teeth shone. “Ask the Amnion to rescind their instructions. As soon as they inform me that they no longer object to our transactions, your credit will be good, and I’ll provide repairs which will satisfy you completely.”

  Without realizing it, Nick had tightened his shoulders, clenched his fists. By an act of will, he uncurled his fingers. But he couldn’t undo the knots in his voice as he said, “I can’t do that. It’s up to you, not me. You have something that belongs to me. It’s something I’ve already promised to them—payment for services rendered. As long as you have that, I can’t satisfy them. And as long as I can’t satisfy them, they’re going to be a threat to all of us. They may decide to just take my property away from you.”

  Smoothly the Bill said, “I may decide to ‘just’ give it.”

  “And if you do,” Nick countered, “you’ll be cheating me.” He stifled a need to brandish his fists. “I may not look very dangerous right now, but I can do your reputation a lot of damage. Ships will stay away when they hear you’ve started cheating.

  “No,” he continued harshly, “the really simple solution is for you to give me what’s mine. I’ll pay your costs, of course—and a salvage fee. Then I can satisfy the Amnion, and we’ll all get what we want in the end.”

  The Bill shook his long head. “I’m afraid that’s a little too simple.” Boyish high spirits seemed to bubble in the background as he spoke. “Just as an example of the complexities you’ve neglected—salvage fees depend on the value of the goods salvaged. You’re asking me to surrender those goods, but you haven’t told me what they’re worth.”

  Nick swallowed a curse. “They haven’t got any value to me at all. The Amnion want them, I don’t. And I can’t explain the Amnion to you. I don’t know why they think that brat is so precious.” I don’t even know whether it’s really him they want. I don’t know which one of us they were trying to kill in the gap. A bit lamely, he added, “You could ask them to set the fee.”

  “My dear Captain Nick,” replied the Bill with cadaverous amusement, “I’ve already done that. They decline to place a value on your ‘property.’ Indeed, they decline to solve any of your problems for you. If I understand them rightly, they insist that the sole, or at least the only relevant, issue here is ‘the mutual satisfaction of requirements.’ They feel that they’ve bargained with you in good faith, and that you’ve cheated them. This they consider intolerable. They insist on restitution, pure and simple.”

  Nick clenched his teeth for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, let it out with a sigh, and said as if he were admitting defeat, “So I’m stuck. You won’t return the contents of that ejection pod. And you won’t accept my money. That doesn’t leave me very many options.” Are you ready for this, Morn? It might work. Can you stand it? “I guess I’ll have to offer you something else.”

  The Bill beamed. “Naturally I’m interested—although I can’t imagine what you have that would be worth more than money.”

  “Try this.” Nick glanced around the dark corners of the strongroom as if to ensure that no one else could hear him. Then he moved closer to the Bill. Billingate’s g made him feel light: what he was about to do made him feel light-headed. When he came up against the nearest of the Bill’s computer stations, he stopped. In a quiet, conspiratorial tone, he said, “I’ll trade you. You give me the kid you found in that pod. I’ll give you a UMCP ensign, complete with id tag.”

  The Bill’s face seemed to stretch as if he were feigning surprise.

  “She
’s a cop—and she’s intact,” Nick articulated softly. “If that were all, she would be worth a fortune out here. The things she can tell you are priceless. But there’s more.

  “She’s a cop, she’s intact, she’s gorgeous—and she has a zone implant. The control comes with her.”

  The shifting of the shadows on the Bill’s face began to make his surprise appear more genuine.

  “Think about it for a minute,” Nick urged. He’d already promised Morn to the Amnion, but that didn’t hinder him. They were after Davies: Morn was just “restitution” for their inconvenience. Nick would be able to find some other way to satisfy that requirement. “Her id tag alone is precious. It’ll give you all the codes the cops use to access their own computers. And you won’t even have to break her to get the rest. All you have to do is turn her on and let her spill everything she knows.

  “But here’s the best part.” Are you listening, Morn? “When you’re done with what she knows, she’s still priceless.

  “I tell you, she’s gorgeous. And that zone implant makes her the most effective piece of female flesh you’ll ever see. I know from experience. She’ll make every other woman here look like a dry hag. In the end, you might get more for selling her on the cruise than her information and codes are worth.” The idea of selling Morn into sexual slavery almost restored his sense of being sure and unbeatable. “The truth is, she’s a hell of a lot more valuable than that fucking brat. Except to the Amnion, because they don’t fuck women—and they don’t know she’s a cop. But she’s about the only thing I’ve got left to bargain with. For the sake of surviving what you call my ‘escort,’ I’ll trade her for that kid.”

  “Interesting.” The Bill twisted his lipless mouth. “A tasty offer—apparently. Of course, I accept your glowing picture of her worth unreservedly. But simply out of curiosity—do the cops know you’ve got one of their ensigns to sell?”

  Curiosity, shit. “Sure they do. Her name is Morn Hyland—she came to me off Angus fucking Thermopile’s ship after Com-Mine Security arrested him. They probably think she’s still working for them—they don’t know about the zone implant—but that doesn’t mean they haven’t already taken precautions. Some of what she knows is out of date by now. Pieces of her information have been changed. She’s still priceless.”

  “Then why,” inquired the Bill, “haven’t you simply sold her to the Amnion and solved all your problems that way?”

  “Because”—Nick glared straight into the Bill’s bright gaze—“I don’t want to solve that many of their problems. I’m like you. I do business with them for what I can get out of it, not because I’m trying to help them.”

  Remember that. I’m warning you. I’m like you. If you mess with me, I’ll burn your heart out.

  The twisting of the Bill’s mouth became a grimace. He looked down at his readouts, tapped a key or two absent-mindedly. Etched by light, he ran his fingertips along the edges of his boards.

  When he lifted his head again, he was smiling like a corpse with an orgasm.

  “Captain Nick, I don’t trust you. You’re playing some kind of game with me—perhaps the same game you’re playing with the Amnion. Why else did you divert your ejection pod here, instead of letting Tranquil Hegemony have it?”

  Before he could stop himself, Nick protested, “Morn did that.”

  When he realized his mistake, he swore at himself viciously. How had she done him so much damage? How had she reached so far inside him with the knife of her treachery?

  “And you expect me to believe,” the Bill retorted as if he were pouncing, “she did it without your connivance? No, Captain Nick. You planned that with her. Or else the picture you paint of her is decidedly—shall we say, decidedly optimistic? In either case, I can be sure of only one thing. If I trade for her, what I get will not be what you say it is.

  “Haven’t you heard the rumors about you, Captain Nick? Don’t you know people think you’re a pirate who supplements his income by doing odd jobs for UMCPDA? Perhaps this entire exercise is an elaborate charade designed to plant your pet ensign on my installation.

  “I’m afraid my answer is no.” He sounded as happy as a kid who’d won a game of marbles. “If you can’t pay me, Captain Nick, we really have nothing further to discuss.”

  Nick sagged as if he were beaten.

  But not because the Bill had refused him.

  Oh, the loss he felt was real. So intensely that it made his groin ache, he wanted to force Morn into prostitution on Thanatos Minor. As revenge that would have pleased him more than giving her to the Amnion. It would have fit the way she’d hurt him.

  Nevertheless his show of dismay was a ploy. He allowed himself to appear defeated in an effort to conceal the true nature of his desperation.

  “All right,” he said like a groan, “all right. I’m helpless here, you know that. If I weren’t, I would see you crawl before I did any more business with you. But I’m stuck. You won’t honor my credit. Without repairs, I can’t run. And you won’t give me that brat you rescued. If I don’t turn him over to the Amnion, they’ll do worse than kill me.” He recited all this in a deliberate display of prostration. The Bill liked to see people prostrated; liked it so much that he might believe it. “You haven’t left me any choice.

  “I’ve got one last thing to trade.”

  “Ah.” The Bill gave a sigh of expectant gratification. His eyes watched Nick keenly.

  “I’ve got—”

  Abruptly a light flashed on one of the Bill’s boards, distracting him. He touched a key, glanced at a readout; his long, delicate fingers tapped in instructions.

  Listen to me! Nick wanted to shout. You’re right—I sometimes do jobs for Data Acquisition. That’s why I’ve got an immunity drug for Amnion mutagens. Hashi Lebwohl gave it to me. To test for him. That’s why I went to Enablement. To test it. And it works. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here now.

  I’ll give you some of it if you give me Davies.

  But the words died inside him as the door swept open, and a woman with a slight stiffness in her stride came into the strongroom.

  “Captain Nick,” said the Bill with his usual incongruous eagerness, “do you know Sorus Chatelaine? She tells me you haven’t met, but you may recognize her by reputation. It was her ship”—his grin was obscene—“that salvaged your ‘property.’”

  The light seemed to contract around Nick. The woman was all he could see as she approached. Baffled by surprise and old terror, he stared and stared at her while she greeted the Bill, then shifted her stance to study him with an air of detached amusement. The stiffness in her limbs suggested that she disliked even the rock’s lesser g.

  “As it turns out,” she said in a low, vibrant tone, “I was wrong. Captain Succorso and I have met after all. He was using another name at the time, as I recall. That’s why I didn’t make the connection.”

  Sorus Chatelaine, the captain of Soar. He hadn’t made the connection, either, of course he hadn’t, like her ship she’d had another name then. And she was much older now. Lines and tired skin marred the structural handsomeness of her face; the light made the gray in her hair look white. Yet he recognized her instantly, absolutely, as if she’d stepped out of a recurring nightmare.

  She was the woman who’d put the scars on his cheeks, the wounds on his soul.

  “I see the surprise is mutual,” she added archly, as if he were still only a helpless boy in front of her.

  Fear and rage knotted his muscles, twisted his face. An instinct for survival stretched as thin as thread was all that kept him from hurling himself at her throat.

  With a confident smile, she dismissed him and returned her attention to the Bill. “You’ve been busy.” Her voice still had the contralto richness which had once wrung Nick’s heart when she made love to him; when she laughed at him. “You may not have had time to pick up the latest bulletins. I wanted to discuss them with you—and Captain Succorso may have something to contribute.” She was laughing at Nick again, secr
etly but unmistakably.

  He couldn’t stop staring at her. His muscles were so tight with strain that he could hardly breathe.

  “Your timing is unfortunate,” the Bill chided cheerfully. “Captain Nick was about to make what I’m sure is a most unusual offer. However, that can wait for a moment.” He looked at his readouts. “Which bulletin did you wish to discuss?”

  “Operations,” Captain Chatelaine replied promptly, “has just had contact from what appears to be a UMCP ship. A Needle-class gap scout, presumably unarmed—if her id is honest. She calls herself Trumpet. She’s about eighteen hours out, and requesting permission to approach.

  “According to her first transmission, she has two men aboard.” Sorus paused for effect, then said, “Angus Thermopyle and Milos Taverner.

  “They claim they stole her.”

  Nick seemed to feel the air being sucked out of the room. Nailed where he stood by contracting light and too much stress, he feared for a moment that he was going to pass out.

  NICK

  orn between spotlights and murder, anoxia and fear, he reeled internally. He seemed to experience the crash of lightning, the blaze of thunder, but they were all inside his head; secret; unreal. She’d left him with tears of humiliation and ruin streaming through the blood on his cheeks, and now his scars burned like streaks of acid under his eyes. If he could have drawn breath, he might have moaned.

  Caught and fixed by the light, Nick Succorso went a little crazy.

  Before he broke, however—before he killed himself by trying to kill Sorus—a name came to him like a spar to the hand of a drowning man. Milos. He clutched at it, clung to it, recited it. Milos Taverner. It was rescue and hope and a kind of madness inextricably tangled together, but it was all he had.

  Milos Taverner was coming to Billingate.

  Slowly the pressure in his chest eased, and he began to breathe again. The light loosened around him like a cut noose; he could see the walls again, dim through the enshrouding shadows. The feral grimace let go of his features. By degrees he recovered his grin.