Earthblood (29 page)

"Pardon this little interruption, Commodore," he said. "You had just come to the part where the ITN arrived to restore order. What did they do with the embryo—or should I say with 'me'?"

Quex babbled. Roan tossed a wine bottle to him, and it fell in his lap, bubbled down over his knees. He groped it up, drank, lowered the bottle with a sob.

"They . . . we . . . it wasn't there. It was gone . . . stolen . . ."

"It seems to have been remarkably hard property to hang on to. What made it so valuable?"

"A specimen of Pure Terran stock? Do you jest?"

"Sure—but there are some fairly pure Terries around, like Henry Dread. What made me different?"

"You were different. Oh, yes, different! You're Pure Strain; unbelievably pure strain—"

"All right. Who stole me?"

"One of my spies, the rotter! A creature I trusted!" Quex warmed to the memory. "He'd finished his work for me, and when I sent a couple of men with knives to advise him I had no more need of his services, he was nowhere to be found! He'd skipped out—and the special bejeweled incubator unit was gone with him! I searched—oh, how I searched! I tore the tongues from a hundred Men and five hundred Geeks, and then at last I got a hint—a word babbled by a former officer of the Shah's guard in his dying delirium: Tambool. I dispatched a crew at once—led by a sturdy Yill scoundrel. The best I could find among the rabble that follow the uniform of the Empire—but none of them ever returned. I heard tales, later, of how they were set upon by a horde of madmen—but the embryo was lost—"

"That horde of madmen was my dad, Raff Cornay," Roan said. "We'll drink to him." He raised his bottle and took a long swig.

"You're not drinking, Commodore," he said. "Drink!" Quex took a halfhearted sip.

"Drink, damn you! Or do I have to pour it down your neck?" Quex drank.

"Hey, this stuff is all junk, Cap'n!" Askor called, tramping over to where Roan sat with one foot on Quex's chair. He tossed a handful of brass jewelry on the table. "Let's load up on Terry wine and shove off. And, uh, a couple of the boys was asking, OK if we take along a few broads too?" The wounded were making a dismal sound from the heaps where they lay. Sidis went over and started shooting the noisiest ones. The rest became quieter.

"You know better than that," Roan said. "You louts would be cutting each other's throats in a week."

"Yeah." Askor scratched an armpit with a blunt finger. "It figures."

"Round the boys up now. I'll be through in a minute." Askor turned away with a roar of commands. Quex trembled so violently his seat bounced in the chair.

"What are y-you g-going to do with m-me?"

"Have another drink," Roan commanded. He watched while his victim complied.

"I—I'll be sick," Quex slobbered.

Roan got to his feet. He pulled his shirt and jacket back on, jammed his feet into his boots. There was a dead officer lying behind his chair. Roan paused long enough to take a handsome sheath-knife with the ancient Imperial Eagle from the body, clip it to his own belt.

"Askor, Poion; lock all the doors," he ordered.

Quex came to his feet. He pulled at the edge of his tunic, swaying. His eyes were like blood-red clams.

"You can't leave me here with them! Not after this!" He looked past Roan at the bright, staring eyes in the pale faces of his men. "They'll tear me to pieces . . . for permitting myself to be tricked!"

Askor and the others were by the main door now. They looked to Roan.

"Go ahead, open her up!" Roan called. He looked back at Quex. "Thanks for the dinner, Commodore. It was a nice party, and I enjoyed it—"

"Lieutenant!" Quex's voice had found a hint of a ring suddenly. He straightened himself, holding onto a chair back. "I'm not . . . Pure Strain. .

.like yourself. . .but I have Terran blood . . ." He wavered, thrust himself upright again. "As a fellow officer . . . of the Imperial Navy . . . I ask you . .

. for an honorable death . . ."

Roan looked at him. He shifted his pistol to his left hand, squared off and saluted Quex with his right, and shot him through the heart.

Roan and his three men walked, guns in their hands, along the echoing corridor. No one challenged them.

"Why don't we pull out now, Chief?" Sidis demanded. "We can take our pick of the tubs on the ramp—"

"That isn't what I came for," Roan said. "I have unfinished business to take care of."

"Why bother knocking off any more of these Terries?" Askor queried. "Not much sport in it, if you ask me."

"I didn't!" Roan snapped. "Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open! We're not in the clear yet. Trishinist wasn't at the party—" A thunderclap racketed along the corridor. Roan spun, went flat.

"Hold your fire!" he roared. Trishinist tittered, stepped out of the half-open door that had concealed him. There were at least a dozen more Men, emerging from the shelter of tattered drapes and chipped marble columns, peering down from a wrought-metal gallery, guns ready.

"I heard the, er, sounds of celebration," the Terran confided. "It seemed wise to have a chat with you before you, ah, continue with what you're about."

"We've already talked," Roan snapped. "Tell your Terries to put their guns away before my men get nervous and shoot them out of their hands."

"Umm. Your Gooks do look efficient. Still, I daresay one or two of my chaps would live long enough to dispatch the four of you. So perhaps we'd best call a truce."

Roan got to his feet. His men stood, facing outward in a tight circle.

"I have an appointment with Admiral Starbird," Roan said. "Or have you forgotten?"

"I remember," Trishinist said quickly. "You haven't, um, changed your plans?"

"Why should I?"

"I thought perhaps—after all the excitement of the banquet—"

"You knew about Quex's plans for the evening?"

"I suspected something of the sort might take place. After all, strangers . .

. ."

"Thanks for letting me know."

"Well, if you couldn't handle that situation, what good are you to me, ummm?"

"We're going on now," Roan said.

"Just so," Trishinist agreed. "But leave the guns." Roan looked at Trishinist; there were small bubbles at the corners of his mouth.

"All right," he said. "Put 'em down, men."

"What for, Boss?" Askor inquired cheerfully. "Sidis still has his knife. That's all he needs."

Trishinist shuddered. Roan tossed his gun aside. The others followed suit.

"Now what, Chief?" Sidis asked.

"Now we get on with the job." Roan turned on his heel and started toward the apartment of Admiral Starbird.

It was silent on the corridor. The guards on the admiral's door were gone. Roan stopped, faced Trishinist.

"Send your Men away," he said. "You can stay. Keep your gun, if you feel like it."

Trishinist lifted his lip to show his pearly teeth. "You're giving me orders?" he said in a wondering tone.

"You want them to see it?"

Trishinist started. "I see," he murmured. He turned, gave crisp orders. All but four of the Men turned, formed up in a squad, marched away.

"They'll be waiting," Trishinist cooed. "Now—" The door behind Roan clicked and swung in. Admiral Starbird stood in the opening, a gun in his hand—" 'Ten-shun" he commanded. Trishinist's men instinctively straightened and in the instant's pause, Askor, standing nearest them, swung and brought his hand down like an ax across the neck of one, caught his gun as it fell, swiveled on the next as he brought his gun around, and the two weapons fired as one. The guard spun, falling, his gun still firing, and a vivid scar raked the wall and doorjamb and caught Admiral Starbird full in the chest. The old man slammed back against the wall, fell slowly, sprawled full length in a growing stain of brilliant crimson.

Trishinist made a noise like repressed retching and stumbled back. Askor brought his gun around as the remaining two guards backed, white with shock but with guns leveled on Roan and his crew.

"You've killed him," Trishinist gasped. "The admiral is dead!"

"I can nail the pair of youse, easy," Askor grinned at the gunners. "Who's first?"

Roan knelt at Starbird's side, ignoring the confrontation of guns.

"Admiral . . ." He tried the pulse at the corded veins of the wrist, felt a faint flutter. "Get your doctors, Trishinist!"

"Yes . . . yes . . . Fetch Surgeon Splie, Linerman! Hurry!" A man turned and darted away.

Starbird's eyes opened. He stared at the Men holding guns aimed at Roan.

"At ease," he said, and died.

"You killed the admiral," Roan said slowly, looking up at Trishinist.

"Not I," Trishinist gasped, backing. "It was an accident. I won't have that on my conscience—it was them!" He pointed at the two guards.

"Blunderers!" he croaked. "You've killed a Man of the True Blood!"

"Not me, Captain. Strigator was the one!" The guards looked shaken, still covering Roan and Poion while Askor covered them.

"Shall I kill 'em, Chief?" Askor inquired.

"Cover Trishinist." Askor's gun flicked to point at the small Man's chest. Poion licked his lips and eyed the gun on the floor.

"Don't try it," Askor rumbled.

"You have no chance," Trishinist said weakly, his eyes on the gun in Askor's hands. "Surrender and I'll deal leniently with you."

"Give us a ship," Roan said. "We'll go quietly."

"You with the gun," Trishinist addressed Askor. "Give up that weapon and you'll go free."

"What about the Cap'n and these two lunkheads?"

"You'll go free. Never mind about them."

Askor grinned, holding the gun steady.

"Very well, then. There's been enough bloodshed. You'll all go free."

"I'll keep the gun," Askor said. "But I won't use it unless I have to. How about that boat now?"

"Certainly." Trishinist licked his lips. "I'll give the orders. But only after you surrender the gun." Sweat was trickling down the small Man's face.

"What about it, Cap'n?"

"Do I have your word as a Man?" Roan asked. "A ship, and no pursuit—for all four of us?"

Trishinist nodded quickly. "Yes, of course, my word on it."

"All right, Askor," Roan said.

"Wait a minute, Boss—"

"Don't do it, Chief," Sidis barked. "Askor can get the both of 'em while they're shooting us! Then him and you can take fancy pants here fer a hostage—"

Roan shook his head. "Put the gun down."

Askor made a jabbing motion toward Trishinist, and the captain jumped back. Askor laughed and tossed the gun aside with a clatter. Roan faced Trishinist; the Man took out a handkerchief, mopped at his face.

"Very well," he said. He made a curt gesture to the two armed men. "Take these stupid pigs to D level."

With a bellow, Poion jumped, and the guard's gun shrieked and spouted blue lightning, and Poion whirled and fell, smoke churning from a gaping, blackened wound in his chest. He groaned and rolled on his back, and charred ribs showed before the blood welled out to hide the sight.

"Askor! Sidis!" Roan snapped. "Stand fast! That's an order!" Roan looked at Trishinist, smiling. "You surprise me, Captain," he said. "I didn't think even a traitor like you would disgrace his Manhood in front of a couple of cross-bloods."

Trishinist tore his eyes from Roan's. "There's been enough killing. I'm ill with killing. Take them away—alive." He turned back to Roan. "I have every right to execute you—all of you—out of hand. I'm sparing your lives. Consider yourselves lucky. You'll be questioned, of course—later." He turned and stalked away.

"Poion," Roan called. "Are you. . .can you. . .?"

"I have taken my death wound, Captain," Poion gasped. "How strange . . . that so many years of life . . . can end in such . . . a little moment . . . and the world go on . . . without me . . ."

"So long, Poion," Sidis said. "Take a pull at the Hellhorn for me."

"Nice try, old pal," Askor said hoarsely. "I think maybe you're the lucky one."

The man who had gone for the doctor came up with a short fat Man in tow. He glanced at the admiral, shuddered, shook his head.

"What about him?" a guard pointed at Poion. The doctor pursed his lips at the wound. "No chance," he said and turned away.

"Surgeon—have you. . .no medicine to cure the pain of living . . ." Poion whispered.

"Hmmmph." The doctor opened a small case, took out a hypospray, pressed it briefly against Poion's laboring chest. A breath sighed out and then there was silence.

"Let's go," the guard said.

Askor reached up, gripped the chain that linked the manacle on his left wrist to a ring set high in the concrete wall, pulled himself up high enough to see through the foot-square barred opening in the cell wall. He grunted and dropped back.

"Nothing, Cap'n. Some kind of tunnel, I guess. We're fifty feet underground anyways."

Sidis squatted at the end of his tether near the door, angling the blade of his polished machete through the bars to catch the faint light from along the corridor.

"They's a guard post about thirty yards along," he said. "One Terry with a side arm."

"You shoulda let us jump 'em, Cap'n," Askor said. "It woulda been better'n this crummy joint. It stinks." He wrinkled his wide nose to dramatize the odor.

"I can smell it," Roan said. "And as long as we're alive to smell things we still have a chance."

Sidis was eyeing the barred door. "Them bars don't look so tough," he said.

"I bet I could bend 'em—if I could reach 'em."

"What do you figure'll happen, Chief?" Askor said.

"As soon as Trishinist recovers his stomach, he'll be along to find out who sent us and why."

Askor guffawed. "That'll be a laugh," he said. "He'll twist and slice us till he makes a mess a mud-pig would puke at, but we won't tell him nothing. We can't. We don't know nothing! That'll gravel him."

"If we was to bend them bars," Sidis said, "one of us could slide out and get to the joker with the blaster. Then he could come back and burn them chains off."

"Wise up," Askor said. "You got to get the chain off the first one first." Sidis hefted his machete. "They left me this," he said thoughtfully. "Them crazy Terries. I guess they're so used to guns they forgot a knife's a weapon too."