Hero (36 page)

"Why, yes," the elderly Nerik replied. "It comes from a vineyard not far from the city. This is said to be the best vintage in a century."

Grekkor suspected that Ilegret could have made this judgment himself, for he

appeared to be quite old. His scales were ragged and snagged the smooth fabric of his tunic at the shoulders and he had the foulest breath of any being Grekkor had yet encountered. Of course, that might have had more to do with the Nerik cuisine than age.

Everything on Grekkor's plate tasted as bad as the wine--and some of it appeared to be moving.

Just how the denizens of Rechred would welcome him, Grekkor hadn't been

certain. So far as he could tell, the news that the two women from Orleon Station possessed hadn't traveled. He could only hope that Worrell was wrong and that they wouldn't be believed if they ever told anyone--especially since all efforts to track them down had failed. Still, he was certain that this plan to donate large sums to charity was a good one. It never hurt to boost public relations, particularly in his line of business, and a positive image was imperative to allow him to maintain control of the Consortium. He'd seen others booted out of power on a whim, let alone the charges that those two women were capable of leveling at him.

"This plan you have," Tularnek began, diverting Grekkor from his thoughts, "I still don't understand why you chose Nerik for that particular honor."

Tularnek may have appeared to be a fool on the surface, but Grekkor knew better.

Smiling disarmingly, Grekkor shook his head. "I chose Nerik because of its unique position in the Consortium. It is centrally located and has the potential for becoming one of the richest planets in the sector. I'm sure there are many here now who would benefit from these charities."

"Are you insinuating that we are a poor, underdeveloped world?" Tularnek said, his scales flattening to a dull sheen.
Grekkor laughed softly and waved his hand as though it would erase the notion

from Tularnek's mind. "I would never be so unkind. This world has vast resources. I am merely attempting to aid you in tapping into them."

"We come to the point now," Narelna said, his enormous white eyes veiled by half-shut lids. "Our cloaking technology. You would have us sell it at more, ah, competitive prices, shall we say?"

"It would enable you to sell more ships," Grekkor said, inclining his head in assent.

"Meaning to yourself?" the Nerik suggested.

"Come now, Narelna," Ilegret said, his scales ruffling with laughter. "Do not antagonize our guest. He will purchase the ships he requires at the normal cost." Turning to Grekkor, he added, "That is why you are here, is it not?"

Grekkor had to hand it to the old Nerik; he didn't miss much. "Perhaps," Grekkor said cautiously. "But first we must finish with the more altruistic business at hand."

"I wonder," said Narelna, "just why it is that you require ships with cloaking capability? Surely a businessman of your stature would not require that your dealings be so... covert?"

"My business?" Grekkor echoed. "Did I say the ships were for my own personal use?"

"No, you did not, but I wonder..."

"You see, my dear, dear Grekkor," Ilegret said with so much emphasis on the use of Grekkor's own endearment that it sounded like a curse. "We have recently heard some rumblings about your... business."

"Oh, and what sort of rumblings would that be?" Grekkor's tone was casual and he was certain there was a smile on his face, but a sense of danger was beginning to curl around his gut.

"I can't be certain," Ilegret went on, "but perhaps you could elucidate--no, wait. I see they have arrived!"

Grekkor watched as Ilegret waved a hand in greeting to someone behind him.

"Greetings, my friends," Ilegret said warmly. "We have been advised of your visit. As the sklarth of this great city, allow me to welcome you to Rechred."

***

sure. But there he was, sitting at a table in a restaurant that would have been considered posh by anyone's standards and sipping wine as though he hadn't a care in the world. It was all she could do to keep from screaming, "Murderer!" When she'd seen him before she hadn't realized the full extent of his crimes, but now she saw him for what he was: the one man responsible for the death not only of her family, but of her entire world. The urge to kick his blond butt all the way from Rechred to Darconia and back was

overwhelming--so overwhelming, in fact, that she now found it difficult to move. To be in the presence of such consummate evil--the depth of which she could only guess at--

was horrifying.

Trag, however, had no such fear.

Waving back to the Nerik, who seemed to know him for some strange reason,
Trag stalked right up to the table where the nemesis of his world sat. He didn't need Micayla to point him out now; something in the insolent set of his shoulders told him that this was, indeed, the one. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lerotan, Hidar, and Rodan slipping in the side entrance--no doubt Jack and her crew were also somewhere nearby, though how any of them had found the right place was a mystery--but this was something he felt he needed to do on his own. Tapping his comstone, he activated the link to Jack and--hoping she was listening--stopped right behind Grekkor's chair.

"I've got a bone to pick with you, Grekkor," he said, putting on his most pugnacious face. "Rumor has it that you killed a Norludian on Orleon Station and blamed two women for it. Is that right?"

"What business is it of yours?" Grekkor said lightly, turning to face him. He might have been intending to laugh it off as a joke, but then he saw who--or what--it was that was addressing him. It was quick, but Trag caught the expression of murderous intent as it swept across Grekkor's casually amused features.

"It means a lot to me," Trag said roundly, "because I'm going to marry one of them and I don't want her getting locked up for murder on our wedding night."

"You're going to mate with one of them?" Grekkor's face displayed his disgust.

"Which one?"

"Why, the Zetithian, of course," Trag replied with a nod toward Micayla.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he added smugly, "We're gonna be mates and we're gonna have a million pure Zetithian kittens. She may even be pregnant already; in fact, I'm pretty sure she is--and then we're gonna spread 'em across the whole fuckin' galaxy, so you can just get over it, asshole."

The glare of pure, venomous hatred Grekkor leveled at Trag should have killed

him where he stood, but Trag's taunt had the desired effect. "I will never get over it!" he shouted as he lunged to his feet. "You horrid cats all deserve to die. I destroyed your world and now I want you to die--in fact, I intend that you will die--like anyone who gets in my way, including that Norludian."

"You're sure you mean that?" Trag taunted. "Really mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it, and I'll increase the bounty on you just to make sure of it!"

Grekkor snarled. "Ten million credits for each one of your stinking Zetithian hides!"

Trag smiled. "Sure you don't want to soften that up a little?"

Grekkor's handsome face was now deep red and contorted with hatred. "Twenty

million for you!"

"No, I guess you wouldn't." Trag said. Smiling, he added, "Did you get that, Jack?"

"You're damn straight I did," Jack replied over the link. "Your ass is grass, Grekkor. The good guys are gonna win this time."

Grekkor glanced frantically around the room. The restaurant was filled with rich, influential people, and his bodyguards were all being held at gunpoint. There was no escape.

Trag caught the desperate look in Grekkor's eyes and made a dive for him,

gripping the hand that now held a deadly weapon. The other patrons were screaming as the pistol swung in all directions, blasting the walls and the ceiling before knocking out an enormous light fixture that crashed right in the middle of the dance floor. In the confusion, Micayla darted in behind Grekkor, neutralizing him with a choke hold that
soon had him gasping for mercy.

Driven to his knees, Grekkor released his hold on the weapon, which Trag then

tossed aside with distaste.

"Why don't you just kill me?" Grekkor said, glaring at his captor with ire. "It's what I would do to you."

"That would make us too much alike," Trag replied, "and I don't think I want to be anything like you." He stood back then and began laughing at the spectacle before him. The bane of his world was nothing but a gasping, red-faced, quivering lump of flesh.

"Man, you are so screwed."

"But I have had my revenge," Grekkor panted. "Your species will not survive.

There are too few of you."

"That's what you think," Trag said with an amused smile. "You just watch us."

Glancing around the room, Trag called out: "Are any of you ladies willing to be surrogate mothers to some Zetithian kids? You'd have some really cute kittens, plus you'd be saving an endangered species from extinction. We seem to cross best with Terrans, but I'm sure other species would be compatible." Pausing a moment to grin at Grekkor, he added,

"How about it? Any takers?"

"I will!" shouted one.

"I'd love to!" shouted another.

"No you won't," Grekkor seethed. "Because I will hunt you down and kill every last one of you--starting with her."

Trag's perception of the entire scene slowed to a crawl. Micayla was standing

right behind Grekkor, having released her hold on him. He saw Grekkor's fluid

movement from sprawled on the floor to a swirling image highlighted by the flash of a blade. Trag realized, too late, that a knife must have fallen from a nearby table during the struggle. It was in Grekkor's hand and time stood still as he plunged it into Micayla's chest.

Trag was on him before the sound of Micayla's scream died. His arm snaked

around the murderer's neck, giving it a quick twist, breaking it with a sharp snap. Killed instantly, Grekkor's nerveless body fell in a heap, pulling Micayla down with it.

Trag's heart nearly stopped as he watched her fall. "Oh, God, Mick," he sobbed, dropping to his knees at her side. Slipping his arm around her, he lifted her head, cradling her in his arms. "I'm so sorry. I should have gotten to him quicker."

"You... killed him?" she gasped. The knife protruding from her upper chest made breathing difficult and blood was already staining her shirt.

"Yes, I did," Trag replied. "I know I shouldn't have, but after he--"

"Good," she said hoarsely, attempting to smile. "That's my Trag... my hero."

"Not if I let you die."

"Doesn't matter," she whispered as her eyelids fluttered shut. "Love you anyway."

Trag felt as if the whole world had just stopped spinning. "Don't you dare die on me!" he roared. "You promised to stay alive!" He stared down at her inert form, unable to think, unable to reason. The only thought in his head was that he loved her and would probably die without her. He was vaguely aware that a crowd was gathering--diners disrupted from their meals, the occasional Nerik having gone into a hum, Jack's shout of outrage from across the room.

"Stand aside, stand aside!" Hidar shouted, fluttering his bright, newly molted
wings as he passed through the crowd. "I must attend to her!"

Trag's eyes were bleak as he looked up at the tall Scorillian. "I don't know, Hidar," he said, choking on the words. "I think she's--"

"Not dead," Hidar said firmly as he crouched beside her.

Trag watched in horror as Hidar clutched the knife handle in his claw-like hands

and began to push the flat side of the blade against the edge of the wound, creating a gap.

"I didn't think you were supposed to do that with a stab wound."

"You aren't unless you're a Scorillian," Hidar said. He made an odd, choking sound and then spat into the opening he'd made. His foamy spittle hissed as it made contact with her blood. Then he pulled the blade out slightly and spat on it again before pushing it back in.

"What the hell are you doing?" Trag shouted.

Micayla's back arched suddenly and her eyes flew open as she sucked in a huge

breath. Her body then began to convulse, and though the seizure only lasted a few seconds, it seemed like hours to Trag.

"You killed her!" Trag exclaimed as she finally collapsed in his arms.

"No," said Hidar. "Only time or disease will do that now--or perhaps some other wound."

"What?"

"She will recover," Hidar insisted. He said this with such firm conviction that it seemed irrefutable, but Trag still didn't believe it.

"That's impossible!"

"No it isn't," someone said, but the voice wasn't Hidar's.

Trag looked down at Micayla in dismay. He'd never expected to hear her voice

again. But he had--unless he was dreaming, and if he was, he never wanted to wake up.

He'd thought she was dead, and now, there she was, looking up at him and even trying to smile.

"Mick?" he whispered. "Are you really--?"

"Going to live?" she said. "I think so."

She was looking at him, moving, and breathing, but-- "With a knife stuck in your chest?"

Hidar's mandibles were clicking with irritation. "Of course she will not have a knife in her chest forever," he said waspishly. "It must stay there for an hour or so and then I will remove it. Take it out before the healant has had enough time to work, and she'll bleed to death."

"Healant?" Trag echoed. "What the devil is that?"

Hidar shook his odd, triangular head, displaying his impatience with Trag's

ignorance. "Did you never wonder why I was aboard Lerotan's ship more as a cook than a medic--and why I resented your criticism of my cooking?"

"Well, no," Trag admitted. "Not really--"

"On Scorillia, I was regarded as an excellent chef," Hidar said. "But not a doctor.

It's not like I ever went to medical school."

"But--"

"I saved Lerotan's life that way once," he said with a gesture toward Micayla,