Doppelganger
by Shayne
Etranger 1
Prologue
Out over rippling, blue-green water, the sun was sinking in a spectacular blaze of crimson fire. Wisps of cloud caught flame along with the ocean, making the colors even more intense. Another breath-taking end to another gorgeous day.
The man standing on his balcony watched it through jaded eyes the color of the ocean in front of him, a glass of thirty-year-old scotch dangling from careless fingers. He'd seen many such sunsets over a period of three years, each as awe-inspiring as the last.
A warm, caressing breeze rifled long waves of golden hair, pushing them back from the beautiful face they framed. Raoul Jervaux was flawless. He'd been created that way deliberately, and it showed. Few planets besides Amoi could claim the distinction of producing such inhuman perfection.
He sipped his whiskey, listening to the cries of seabirds skimming over gentle waves. It had been some time since he'd seen the rocky, arid land of his home world. Years. Many would call him insane for missing it when he lived in paradise.
And Gingetkyu was certainly a paradise.
Eighty-five percent of the planet was ocean, but its two continents and cluster of islands were situated so that seasonal change for much of the land-mass was either mild, or ideally suited to the agricultural purposes for which this world had been designed.
That such a richly fertile place was Amoi's possession galled many larger, more prominent worlds. Which was, Raoul thought, the main reason he was here. His very presence was a visual reminder to the citizens of where they'd originally come from. And the Syndicate muscle that backed him up made other planets think twice about appropriation.
Gingetkyu had long ago reverted to old-Earth practices. It was a planet of farmers, not city-bred dilettantes, and had little patience for Amoi and its intricate caste system. Here, a child of any breeding was a blessing and another set of working hands. No matter how advanced the agrarian techniques used, this world required hard, constant work to make it function.
It had been a revelation to Raoul. Even in Canaan, Gingetkyu's capitol, the attitudes and social mores were so far removed from Tanagura's that he could not even begin to reconcile the two. And there were very few Elite. The only places here with concentrated numbers of Amoi's upper-class were the Triad Islands.
Resort-heaven and the retirement choice for many of this galaxy's aristocracy of wealth, the Islands had been privately owned and maintained for nearly a century. A tropical Elite play-land, they were as distant from the rest of Gingetkyu as Blondies from mongrels. The contrast was fascinating to a man whose life-pursuits encompassed human psychology and biology.
There were facets of living here that he enjoyed. His house, for one, something unavailable on Amoi. Its alloy and plas frame, complete with open breezeways and private grounds, was something he'd hate to give up.
And the soft, constant murmur of the ocean. When he'd first come here, it had kept him awake at night; now he wasn't sure he could sleep without it.
He glanced down at the loose cotton pants seated on his hips and the equally casual button-down with its open placket and rolled-up sleeves.
Formality had no place on Gingetkyu, and much of its climate discouraged Blondie fashions. Skinsuits were an abomination in cities where summer temperatures soared to over 110 degrees F. He grimaced wryly at the thought. And wondered how he was going to force himself back into Amoi's mold in just two weeks. Or if it was even worth trying.
The summons he'd ceased to look for had finally come. Iason had sent his replacement. Raoul was going home.
1
Mattias Vere came out of REM sleep suddenly; his mind instantly alert. Unsure what had awakened him, he eased a hand along the bed's headboard to where an almost undetectable slit concealed a small las-gun.
This would make the third assassination attempt this month. Would these morons never learn? He gave this one points for originality and guts, though, even if he was clueless. Whoever the guy was, he was the first to go after Matt in his own bedroom.
Avara's single distant moon was stingy with its light and his room's shading had been activated, but he still caught the suggestion of movement. Waiting for the assassin to get closer, he idly ran through the building's guards in his mind—trying to decide which ones he'd have to kill.
Then a light weight dipped the bed and an unexpectedly familiar scent filled his senses. His hand slipped from its hold on the gun and he started to push himself up.
"Tir-,"
"No." The much-loved voice caressed him, pouring over him like warm honey. A hand gently but firmly pressed him down. "Stay."
His head dropped back against the pillow, and he barely restrained himself from reaching out as Tir stripped the covers away and settled over him, skin warm and bare. Silky, Tir-scented strands drifted across his face, and then soft, full lips covered his own, brushing against them before moving away. Then returning to do it again.
"Tir."
Slim hands stroked over him, finger-pads smooth from constant contact with a terminal's keys. Their lightest touch sent arousal all through his body, and his hips jerked upwards, rubbing his erection against Tir's. Velvet laughter slid along his nerves as the younger man slid down his body.
"I think you missed me."
Tir's mouth almost touched his cock, his breath warm on Matt's sensitive skin. He dug his hands into the sheets, keeping them from grabbing the boy and...
Wet warmth engulfed his penis, taking him in nearly to the root.
"Hells!"
Tir hummed around his erection and the resulting vibrations nearly sent him through the ceiling. Arching backwards, Matt stared blindly into the darkness, out of his mind with need after four months without this.
That hot mouth slid slowly up and down, Tir's tongue tracing the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, following it to the nerve-center just beneath the crown. The light pressure on that point, in addition to the fingers stroking his balls, drove him to the brink of climax.
Tir pulled away, rising to kneel over him. Long fingers wrapped around his erection, holding it upright. The head of his cock pressed against Tir's entrance, then the younger man sank slowly down, taking him all the way inside that incredibly tight, silken passage.
"Wait." He gripped Tir's narrow hips, holding him still, even though he wanted to move more than anything in the damn universe. "Are you-?"
"I'm fine, Matt." There was a hint of laughter in Tir's soft alto. "Don't worry so much."
His lover's hands cupped his face and Tir's mouth came down on his, tongue lightly tracing his lips. The boy pushed upright, knees spreading wider as he rose... then dropped back down on the large cock inside him.
"Matt!"
He could see nothing but Tir's outline above him, the room was so dark. But he could feel... Feel long dark hair brush against his thighs. Feel smooth, warm skin under his fingers—tiny nipples that tightened into hard points when he touched them. Feel the grip of rippling muscle around his shaft, better than any wet dream he'd ever had.
Sliding a hand between Tir's thighs, he gently massaged the tight sac, stroking upwards to wrap around the boy's erection.
"Ah!"
Dark waves of hair pooled over his thighs as Tir's head fell back. The slim cock he cupped pulsed, spilling warm semen over his hand, and then he was lost to any sensation but the orgasm being pulled from him by the tightening of Tir's inner muscles.
It seemed to go on forever, killing pleasure that took him out of his body for long, endless moments. Tir fell forward onto him, and he wrapped his arms around his little one, tucking the dark head under his chin.
Slender arms slid over his chest and under his neck, and wordless contentment gripped him. A warm mouth pressed against his shoulder as Tir sighed into his skin.
"I missed you too, Matt."
"When did your transport get in? You weren't due for another week."
Matt's voice was a low rumble beneath his ear. He lay against the Blondie, one cheek resting on the wide chest, pleasure an almost tangible sensation. He was so rarely able to touch the man he loved, that when he had the opportunity, he glutted himself.
"It was Kirton. The new Corporal. His father died and he got emergency leave. So the army gods decided to let us all off a week early. I didn't com because—well—I wanted to surprise you."
Laughter shook the long body beside him.
"You succeeded. I thought you were another of Farot's hired killers."
Tir's head jerked up, and he looked down at his lover, the faint light of approaching dawn revealing aristocratic Blondie features.
"I thought you said that was over," he said accusingly. "I thought you made a deal with him."
Matt snorted.
"You don't make 'deals' with the Ajrah of the Alethian Guild, little one. Pirates have their own form of honor, and Farot will follow our accord to the letter. That doesn't mean he won't try to kill me, then achieve a new understanding more advantageous to himself with Avara's next Governor."
A small cry of frustration echoed through the room.
"How much longer? How much longer will he leave you here?"
Flipping over on his side, Tir stared blankly at the shadowy room. Three years. Matt had been in Mithra for three years and Iason Mink still had yet to relieve him of the unwanted post. Strong arms pulled him back against firm muscle, and Matt rested a cheek against the top of Tir's head.
"I don't know, Tir. I suppose... as long as he deems necessary. However," the serious tone softened, grew teasing, "if he doesn't do something soon, I may hop the next deep-space freighter, just so long as it's headed away from this gods-awful place."
Tir smiled a little and settled back against the Blondie, weariness engulfing him. The journey from Amoi to Avara was only half a day by FTL transport, but space/time displacement was difficult on a body not used to it. He only made this trip once every four months.
"So what have you been up to lately? The Citadel still having grid trouble?"
Rousing himself from near sleep, he focused on Matt's question.
"The power grids? Oh yes. And Systems Control still hasn't been able to find out why. The electrical engineering group in block 340 thought they'd fixed it... but then the six-and-seven-hundred blocks lost power just two days before I left. Funny thing is, Katze says the rest of the city is having the same kind of roving shut-downs. Energy drains too."
"Strange."
"Mmn."
Oh, this felt good. Matt was so warm. Tir burrowed further into that welcome heat.
"And how is Riki?"
He yawned.
"Fine. I haven't heard from him since he left Midgari last month, but-," Tir stopped abruptly, realizing what he'd just said. And that he'd screwed up, but good.
A hand wrapped around his chin, tilting his head so that he looked up into amused aquamarine eyes. He swallowed, staring at Matt like a ridot hypnotized by a rock cobra.
"I knew I'd catch you one of these days. You always skirt around it. Never yes, never no. How long have you known where he was?"
"I... I can't say, Matt." He broke from that intensely blue gaze, hiding his face against the Blondie's skin. "I can't. I'm not going to break my word to him any more than I just did."
Long fingers threaded through his hair, massaging his scalp, soothing him.
"It's alright, little one." Matt's voice was gentle. "I won't ask you to."
They didn't speak again, and soon Tir's eyes were too heavy to hold open. Letting them close, he relaxed into the warm comfort of Matt and drifted easily into dreams.
The Blondie stayed awake longer, stroking soft white skin and thinking. Midgari was several planetary systems away from Avara. Matt had last seen the black mongrel over two and a half years ago when Riki'd come through here, working for one of the contract haulers that serviced the Ygnatio galaxy.
They hadn't exchanged more than a few words of greeting. At the time, Matt hadn't even known that Riki had left Amoi. Mink, of course, had said nothing.
Matt wondered, sometimes, what would have happened if he'd commed the other Blondie while the freighter had still been on-planet. And he wished that Riki would hurry up and finish whatever he was doing and go home. He had the irrational, but unshakable feeling that as long as Iason's mongrel lived in exile... so would he.
"This is the second time this week that Apatia has lost power. Last week it was Ceres, Parthea the week before. I'm wondering how much longer this series of blackouts is going to last."
Katze stood in the middle of Iason Mink's office and watched the tall man in front of him gaze out over Eos' busy streets.
"I don't know, Iason," he said. "But I'm at a loss as to why you want me involved. Vortigern's in charge of Tower Controls. He's damn good at his job, too; I should know, you had me spec him. If it's systems, he'll find it. If it's not... send him a couple of electrical guys up from engineering. They'll do him more good than I would."
The platinum head turned from the window and pale eyes met his own.
"I don't need you to fix the problems, Katze. I want you to find their root. And rip it out with your bare hands, if necessary."
"You think this is deliberate sabotage, then," Katze said slowly. "Those hackers we found?"
"I don't see another possibility. Vortigern's people can only correct the failures, not ascertain their origin... and for the present, that's what they are being forced to do."
One hand carelessly shoved long red bangs away from a delicately structured face.
"You do know the actual saboteurs aren't the ones you're really looking for, don't you? The two guys in Midas were just a couple of starving Spacers trying to make a few extra credits. Someone was paying them... and all the others we haven't run to ground yet."
"Which is precisely why I need you. You're good at following undetectable trails."
"Where the hell am I supposed to start, Iason? Those two kids can't remember a damn thing about who hired them. And just how am I going to make time to track down some nonexistent source... who would I delegate to? You know how hard it is to find reliable lieutenants for the Market. I don't have any men I can turn my back on for more than a few days. There hasn't been anyone I'd trust that much since-,"
He bit the words off too late. The room's atmosphere dropped nearly twenty degrees in an instant and Iason's already cold blue gaze turned frigid. The sentence Katze had not finished hung in the air between them.
Since Riki left.
Hindsight being what it was, Katze had blamed himself; sure that if he'd paid closer attention to his friend's behavior, if he'd just listened, he would have known something was wrong. But those two months after Jupiter's deactivation had been a blur of ceaseless activity for all of them. And by the time Midas' Boss was able to stop and catch his breath, the black mongrel had already gone.
Katze was almost certain he knew why, but he couldn't tell Iason. He'd promised.
He had no idea what Iason believed. The Blondie's thoughts and emotions were completely closed off and he seemed to do nothing but work. It had been that way for three years.
Riki's disappearance had achieved Jupiter's objective: Iason Mink's return to the coldly analytical Blondie who observed his fellow humans from some distant inner plane. Katze could see no trace of the man he'd called friend within that emotionless face.
"Might this be a new incarnation of Jupiter's Sword?"
Katze forced his mind back to the present and focused on Iason's words.
"That Elite faction? No. The hackers we found in Midas were mongrels. The drive behind the Sword was racial. They wouldn't have stooped to using inferior breeds; not even to do their dirty-work."
"I thought not. But it is better to be sure." The Blondie returned his gaze to the window. "That is why I've called Raoul in. His transport left Gingetkyu a day ago, so he should be here tomorrow."
A frown wrinkled the red mongrel's brow.
"What can Raoul do about it? And since when do you consult a psychologist about power-generation?"
A hint of a smile touched the austere mouth.
"What can Raoul do? Only take a man's mind apart and rearrange the pieces until they make sense. As of now, he is the only living Elite with that ability... with the possible exception of whoever tampered with those mongrels' memories."
Katze found himself pinned in place by wintry eyes, the annoyance in their depths beginning to edge towards anger.
"No one but Raoul should have been able to do that, Katze. And I very much want to know who it was."
"Tanagura flight control, this is Forlorn Hope—serial A563900-99, F-class—requesting permission to land; do you copy?"
"Loud and clear. Got your cargo manifest filed with 'port customs, come back?"
The ship's pilot grinned widely at his navigator and pushed his aviator-style, mirrored shades more firmly in place with one leather-gloved hand.
"Sure thing, control. Logged it myself back on Medea, come on."
"Hold your pattern, Forlorn Hope; control out."
"Copy that."
Murmurs of relief rose from the Hope's crew.
"Settle down, people." The pilot glanced around at his team. "We've still gotta get this rust-bucket to 'port before y'all start countin' credits."
"Ah, c'mon, Flyboy. This run's gonna pay off that speeder I got sittin' in storage," the man at the weapons station whined.
"Never make plans 'til the tender's in your account, Taggart," the pilot said, his laid-back voice touched with adamantine.
"You are just no damn fun, man."
"So, whattaya know 'bout this place? I've heard some pretty freaky shit," another voice said.
"It's Amoi. You know... where they grow pets."
"Damn! Bet they got a hellacious night-life."
"Yo, Flyboy," said the woman at the nav station. "You come from this system, yeah? So you gotta know somethin', right?"
White teeth gleamed against golden skin.
"Only three important things to know 'bout Tanagura, Shreve: pets, Elite and mongrels. Pets are dumb-as-all-get-out clones who fuck like ridots, Elite think they're the gods' gift to the universe... and mongrels are scum. And by the way, kiddies, all of you fit into the last category. If you're repro'd the normal way, Amoi'll think there's somethin' wrong with you."
There was a momentary cessation of sound.
"What about Blondies?" Shreve asked. "Leila came through here a while back—said those guys are the hottest things this side of Illythian Mers." She turned in her seat to wink at the rest of the crew. "Rumor has it, they're hung like racers."
"Wonder how they found that out," the pilot remarked idly, lean muscles shifting as he stretched out in his chair. "Blondies don't fuck."
Three pairs of eyes turned on him and three jaws dropped in unison. He laughed inwardly.
"That's fucking nuts," Taggart muttered.
"You serious?" Shreve asked incredulously.
"As a heart attack, babe. When good ol' Jupe was still runnin' things, that was the rule, and I don't think they'd break that kinda conditioning overnight."
Heh. Not overnight. But not too much longer, either.
Shreve shook her head in disbelief.
"Forlorn Hope, this is Tanagura flight control, you still out there?"
"Just sittin' here with my thumb up my ass, control, come back."
"You are cleared for approach," the voice said, amusement rife. "Docking bay 29; control out."
"Well, I thank you kindly," the pilot replied. "Forlorn Hope, out."
Thin, clever hands moved easily over the console.
"Give me some power, Rey," the pilot said, and softly humming engines throbbed to life.
The freighter banked from its orbit and penetrated Amoi's atmosphere, turbulence-level no worse than usual.
"We on course, Shreve?"
"Yeah, boss. Take 'er in."
They came out of the clouds and Tanagura suddenly lay before them, a glittering jewel in the twin moons' light. The pilot's throat tightened at the familiar sight, but he pushed the feeling away, quashing the anticipation building inside of him.
"Welcome to Tanagura, kids," he drawled. "Be glad you don't call it home."
2
Iason stood just inside one of the Spaceport's private docking bays, staring in disbelief at the man walking towards him. Was that really... Raoul?
Golden strands fell in long waves once more, and the other Blondie wore them tied back in a loose tail. But Raoul's hair was the only thing remotely familiar about him.
White slacks and a matching button-down hung with casual elegance from the tall, perfectly proportioned frame. The shirt was untucked, and open at the throat, its sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. Leather boots of a style Iason didn't recognize clicked against concrete and small, round shades hid the golden Elite's eyes.
Raoul's tanned skin contrasted strikingly with the white of his clothes and a stud of some verdant stone winked in one ear. Iason still remembered the look on the man's face when he'd had his own lobe pierced. Nauseated didn't even begin to cover it. Obviously the other Blondie had lost his distaste for the procedure.
Stopping a couple of meters away, his old friend tucked one hand into a pocket and slid the shades from eyes that matched the glinting stud.
"Hello Iason." Raoul's blue-green gaze wandered over him, cataloguing his appearance, and the well-shaped mouth curved. "It seems Tanagura Elite do get bored with the norm, on occasion."
Iason straightened the cuffs of his severely-cut black suit.
"Fashions alter, Raoul, even here." He eyed the other Blondie's odd outfit. "In some places they deteriorate completely."
"Mm." Something flickered within opaque eyes. "And what else has changed? I don't believe you called me back here for a mere exchange of pleasantries."
"You and Vere. Suspicious creatures, the both of you. I spoke with Mattias last week and the first thing he asked was what I wanted this time."
The smile lingering on Raoul's lips widened slightly.
"Perhaps because he knows you, Iason. As do I. You were perfectly content to leave us out there, holding Amoi's interests secure. With you, there is always an ulterior motive."
A white-blonde brow rose.
"As it happens, this time you're right. Come. We'll speak of it in the car."
"Do you know if Jupiter created a second Elite with your mental capabilities? I know there is a boy at the schools right now... but was there another mature talent? Closer in age to us?"
Raoul turned from his contemplation of the city's skyline through the car window to glance at his friend. Iason looked good; thinner, colder—more harshly elegant than ever—but good. The sleek, tailored style suited him.
"No," he replied. "Only one in any given generation was chosen for telempathy. Why?"
Long legs crossed, Iason toyed with the silver ring on his left middle finger, frowning. No gloves, Raoul noticed. Interesting.
"For the last two months, we've been having trouble with the Tower's computers. Data corruption, conflicting orders sent to outlying systems, minor crashes. The grids have been affected, too. Midas and Ceres are experiencing energy drains that shut down their power for hours at a time. And, occasionally, Parthea."
He paused.
"We caught a couple of the perpetrators a month ago. They operated out of Midas, but were obviously mongrels. They didn't tell us who hired them because they couldn't. I think someone planted a suggestion in their minds that erased everything once they'd completed their task." He looked across at Raoul. "I believed you to be the only native capable of that."
"An off-worlder, then. I know you've had trouble with a few conservative splinter groups. Someone might have hired a Mercian telempath. Or one of Kemet's sems?"
The furrow of irritation in the platinum Elite's brow deepened.
"It's possible but not probable. Planetary security is tight for that reason and others like it, so I highly doubt anyone could get past the checkpoints."
Leaning back against deep leather cushioning, Raoul laced his fingers together, resting them against his flat stomach.
"Then I don't know what to tell you. I'm the only 'enhanced' Elite Jupiter made after Avril Khan's death... that I know of."
Iason remained silent, staring down at his hands.
"So that's why I'm home," Raoul said softly. "I take it you want me have a look at them?"
The pale blue eyes finally lifted.
"I don't know what else to do at this point, Raoul. Tower Controls stays on top of the power drains, but they are growing more frequent. And I can't ask Katze to just drop everything and chase some shadowy chimera when we've no idea who it might be. The two mongrels are the closest we've come to solid evidence. Otherwise, might as well blame it on 'grid ghosts'."
"I'll see what I can do," Raoul said. "Although, if they've been tampered with, you'd better hope whoever screwed with your hackers' heads didn't put in a self-destruct along with the memory-wipe."
"Thank you, Raoul," Iason said, his tone flat. "That was just what I didn't need to hear."
Raoul shrugged, turning back to the window and effectively ending the conversation. He watched the sun drift towards the horizon, noting that day's-end on Amoi wasn't nearly as spectacular as that of Gingetkyu.
Lulled by the car's low hum, he rested against soft luxury and, for the first time in three years, deliberately allowed himself to remember. Remember long, dark hair and laughing grey eyes. Remember a slim, strong body and an impudent, agile mind. Remember Guy.
"Dammit all to hell! Would you just look at those rocketball scores! I swear to god, you'd think after the best season of their lives that Junjou could actually make it to the play-offs."
Sid sank back into the booth's cushioning, a look of utter disgust on his face. Luke glanced over at the enormous vid-screen opposite them on the Blue Room's wall.
"Why you like that shit, I don't know. I'd be bored off my ass trying to sit through one game."
"Tell me," Norris chimed in. "Every First-day evening, I make sure I've got something to do, 'cause he just won't move."
Guy smiled to himself, watching his old gang, an untouched glass of brew in front of him. He enjoyed coming up to Midas from Berangora every few months. It was good to be here with them. Even if he never had much to say, they always welcomed him, their good-natured camaraderie the only stability he'd known before the Ito School. Almost the only stability. There had been one other... for a little while.
"Hey Jim, you wanna change that thing? I'm sick of watching a bunch of faggots in skinsuits run around!" Luke yelled over the Room's noise level.
The man behind the bar shot Luke a thumbs-up and the picture changed to a news-vid. Sid transferred his irritable look to the mongrel in shades.
"Did you really have to do that?"
"Look, all you were gonna do was bitch about it and get even pissier. I did you a favor."
"Hey," Norris was squinting at the screen. "Isn't that Raoul?"
Guy jerked as if shot. His chin came up and he stared, unblinking, at the vid. It was Raoul, walking from the spaceport at Iason's side. Sensei looked... different. The wavy gold hair had grown back in, but everything else had changed.
"-Raoul Jervaux's return. Having resigned as governor of Gingetkyu, the Blonde Elite will presumably return to his previous position as Director of Tanagura's biological research facilities. Iason Mink is expected-"
He tuned the reporter's voice out, and soon the footage of Mink and Raoul disappeared from the screen. Across the way, Luke and Sid continued to argue, sniping at each other with thorough enjoyment. Norris glanced at him.
"That was him, wasn't it? Looks like the make-over police had a go at him, though."
Guy only nodded, unable to push words past his sealed throat, and Norris went back to watching the news. Sitting silently, paralyzed by the varied emotions bombarding him, Guy tried to make sense of his muddled thoughts. He had no idea what to do or how to react. After three years of complete silence, Raoul had returned the same way he'd left: without warning.
3
Scanning the unofficial cargo manifest, Katze searched for his shoja-leaf cigarettes. He could have sworn they were in this shipment... along with a particularly powerful—and extremely expensive—hallucinogen that grew naturally in Medea's steaming jungles.
"Vin!"
One of the men running the loaders shut his machine down and jogged over. Katze held the inventory out.
"This shipment was supposed to have a hundred cases of shoja cigs. I have buyers for them. And I'm almost out, myself. Can you tell me why I'm looking at a blank space where they were supposed to be?"
Sweat broke out at the man's hairline.
"Hell, boss, I dunno. All me and Ceph did was unload 'em and log 'em. You wanna know why they ain't there, you're gonna have to talk to the pilot. He and his cooperative own the freighter. Independents, y'know."
Katze gingerly pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.
"And can you tell me where I might find them?" he asked from between clenched teeth.
He was going to have to have a word with his contacts on Medea. Obviously, they didn't know the difference between a discreet, slightly shady hauler and an outright thief.
Vin scratched at one thick eyebrow.
"Most of 'em head straight for the Midas whorehouses. When you're doin' a long haul, you go up to two weeks without, if you know what I mean."
The man grinned a little, then seemed to remember who he was talking to and turned bright red.
"Sorry boss," he mumbled.
Golden eyes watched him dispassionately.
"I assume this pilot has a name?" The red-head's tone was solid ice.
"Uh, yeah. I think they called him Flyboy. Dunno what his real name is. Pilots usually just go by their nick."
"Wonderful. I therefore must go through every brothel in the city asking for a man known only as 'Flyboy'."
The man seemed to shrink into himself under that frozen glare.
"Well, uh, he wears mirrors and he's got black hair."
"Better and better," Katze replied caustically. "At this rate, I'll be able to find him sometime next century. Send Ceph over here."
Vin left quickly, relief a visible aura around him and a minute later Ceph was able to tell Katze absolutely nothing else, except...
"Try the Paloma Cantina. It's on the edge of Apatia. Lot of deep-spacers hang there after a run."
Oh, perfect. Looked like it was a leather duster and jeans for him tonight.
Raoul wandered through his condo, running a hand along the back of a lounge, taking in the view from his office window. Reacquainting himself with his former life.
The dojo's door was open, and he walked through, bowing towards the shrine before moving to stand center-floor in the moon-drenched room.
Canaan wasn't a cultural or athletic center, but it did possess two other Masters of different disciplines. He'd trained with an Illythian sadhar for the last three years; a good match for him, but strange. Illythians typically stood 205 cm or more, and Ylleryn Llann was no exception. It had been a challenge, learning to spar someone who topped him, height-wise.
With their green-tinged, bronze skin and sea-foam hair, the Mers of Illythia rivaled Amoi's Elite for beauty. They certainly had an exotic appeal that Blondies lacked. The thing their planet was best known for, however, was the ruthless efficacy of its assassins. Raoul had learned things from the expatriate Mer that both horrified and fascinated him.
Walking to one sword-rack, he lifted a lacquered sheath, drew the blade. One-hundred-thirty cm of gently curving menace glistened in the moons' light. Illythian blades were the closest thing to a katana he'd ever found. Still... it had been a long time since he'd held the real thing in his hands.
Sliding the force-sword back into its sheath with a sharp snick, he stripped off his shirt, walking along the racks of blades, looking for the one he wanted. It was actually there, in its accustomed place, which surprised him greatly. The last time he'd seen it was in a rock-walled room, several years past. He hadn't expected its return.
Separating sword from sheath, he lifted it to the light, examining the edges. Flawless.
Bright silver cut the night as Raoul strove to quiet his chaotic mind the best way he knew how. Moving methodically through kata after kata, he finally exhausted himself to the point that his thoughts no longer ran in pointless circles.
He slowed until he stood where he'd begun, blade at rest, and let his breathing return to normal. The decision reached before he'd begun this ritual remained firm, even now that his mind was clear.
Tomorrow, he'd deal with Iason's hackers—sieve their brains for anything useful. But afterwards...
He checked the single silver cuff he wore. 22:15. The Master would still be awake. There was time for a short com. Time enough to let his sensei know he'd be in Berangora soon. He'd served Amoi's needs, one way or the other, for most of his life. It could do without him for a week.
Flat on his back amidst rumpled sheets, Iason stared, sleepless, at the ceiling. Night was the hardest... even after three years. It meant he had time to think. And to listen for sounds he already knew he wouldn't hear.
Last year he'd purchased a Furniture, simply to break the condo's profound silence. Helios was a slight boy, as sunny-tempered and bright as his name. He performed his duties without error and went quietly about his business with no bother to his Master.
The Blondie on the bed smiled wryly. Of course the boy was well-trained. Katze had chosen him.
Still looking out for me after all this time, Katze? Perhaps you're right. I never truly removed that bracelet. Not from the place it mattered most.
His thumb rubbed back and forth over his ring, the movement habitual, worrying the silver metal as his mind probed ceaselessly at Tanagura's current problems. It was only here that they'd occurred. He'd already spoken with the governors of Amoi's two other prominent cities—Berangora and Tragaeron. Neither had been affected.
That had certainly been a troublesome exercise. Trying to steer the conversation in such a way that they'd have no idea what information he was fishing for was a little like dancing with a werecat: if you stepped wrong, you'd get clawed.
And on top of everything else, the bi-annual summit was upon them. In another month, Tanagura would be flooded with Amoi's councilmen and their retinues. If he didn't find and remove the hydra's central head, the rest of the planet would become aware of the situation. He'd be fighting off assassins and take-over attempts for at least a year.
Iason flung an arm over his eyes. Hells. Being the Blondie of Tanagura was truly a thankless job. And the compensations were few and far between.
4
Smoke from numerous cigarettes turned the Paloma Cantina's air a hazy blue and hard-core industrial rock echoed off walls designed to look as cave-like as possible. Katze glanced around in distaste. Midas was full of pubs like this one, but its Boss preferred to avoid them.
His height made navigating the packed tables and crowded floor easy, and when he reached the bar, one of the two men behind it came over to him immediately, eyes widening slightly with recognition.
"G-good evening, Sir. Can I get you something? On the house," he added quickly.
Katze smiled faintly.
"Thank you, but no. I am looking for someone, however. Perhaps you could tell me if Flyboy or any of his crew have come in?"
He pushed a twenty-credit chit across the metal surface, and the man took it, looking almost dazed.
"Flyboy? Yeah. He's got the last booth there in the back."
The dealer's eyes followed the server's gaze to a shadowy corner. The booth was full, its occupants enthusiastically loud. Raucous laughter and the occasional shout issued from it.
Nodding his thanks to the bartender, he strolled towards the back of the room, hands out in the open at all times. Giving someone the idea that you might be reaching for a concealed weapon was not a good idea in hauler joints. Too much alcohol and a whole lot of pent-up testosterone generally spelled trouble.
He stopped by the booth's entrance, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. The light was even dimmer over here and a smoky cloud issued from four different cigs.
They were a rough lot, though not sleazy. Hardened would be a better description. There were three men and a woman, and all of them but one had prostitutes snuggled up to them.
When they finally registered Katze's presence, the noise level dropped considerably. By then, the red mongrel had already focused on the man sitting directly opposite him in the very back of the booth: the one with no evening companion.
His shaggy black hair spiked messily around his face and aviator mirrors threw Katze's reflection back at him. One hand, covered by a fingerless leather glove, raised a cigarette to full lips, and Midas' Boss suddenly noticed the tattoos.
Chains. They encircled each wrist and wound up long, brown arms to the man's shoulders, disappearing under the unzipped leather vest that was all the covering he wore over his well-defined torso.
The pilot took a long drag off his cig and let the smoke stream from his nostrils and mouth before smiling sardonically at the dealer.
"Hey there, Katze," Riki said. "Where the hell you been? Was beginning to think you'd lost your touch."
The rest of the crew filed out, pleasure servers in tow, and Katze slid into the booth, sitting close to the exit. Across from him, Riki shifted, bringing one leg up to rest on the seat, propping an elbow on the table.
Katze stared at the silver links etched into the other mongrel's skin, mesmerized by their fluid undulations.
"Like 'em? Got 'em on Gidris Prime two years back. I was drunk off my ass that night, let me tell you."
"Riki."
"But you're probably here for the cigs, huh? I knew you'd have a conniption 'bout those."
"Riki."
"Don't worry, they're all there. Just couldn't resist the urge to fuck with you. Been three years since I've had the pleasure, after all."
"Riki."
The man opposite him finally removed the shades, and Katze looked into glinting black eyes. Riki's face had reached full maturity. Its lines were more defined, striking as opposed to sultry. It fit his new, harder image.
"How you doin', Katze? How's he doin'?"
The red mongrel let his head rest against the booth. A sigh left the pale mouth.
"Three years, Riki. You expect you can show up here, say 'hi' and everything will be fine?"
"Did I say that?" When Katze fumbled for his cigarettes, a shaking hand finally lifting one to bloodless lips, Riki leaned across and lit it. "Watch the hands, boss. Don't wanna burn the place down."
Dark red brows veed.
"Don't say burn."
A low chuckle filled the booth.
"Gonna hold that against me forever? I wasn't the one who set the charges."
Translucent lids shuttered amber eyes.
"If you want to live through the next few minutes, Riki, you'll abstain from any mention of that."
"Sure thing, boss."
Katze sucked fragrant shoja smoke deep into his lungs.
"I'm not your boss anymore. No one seems to be, these days."
Riki shrugged.
"That's the beauty of a cooperative. The majority share is mine, though: 55%. That means I get final say on any decisions made. But Shreve and the guys are good for the long haul. Wouldn't've gone into business with them if they weren't."
Leaning forward, hands braced against the table, Katze glared at Riki.
"Then why did you come back? You should have just stayed gone. You—you're going to tear him open again, you little bastard!"
Dark eyes lit by the glow of cigarette flame studied him.
"I never meant to leave for good. And I sure as hell didn't expect to stay gone as long as I did. But—shit happens. No one knows that better than you, Katze."
Pushing towards the booth's exit, Riki dropped a small pile of credits in the center of the table before rising. Closing the distance between them, he put a hand on the metal edge and leaned over the dealer.
"Your cigs are at the usual place. My old drop point. And I've got something for Iason, too."
Katze never saw it coming. One minute Riki was grinning offensively at him—in the next, he'd covered the red-head's mouth with his own. Though it had only happened once before, the feel of the black mongrel's mouth was familiar. And arousing.
Riki bit the dealer's bottom lip, sucking the sharply erotic sting away as he pulled back. Midnight-velvet eyes caressed Katze, heat washing over his body in their wake.
"Don't forget, boss—that's Iason's." The eyes disappeared behind mirrored shades and that cocky grin returned. "I dare you to give it to him yourself."
Riki pushed through the Cantina's crowds to the back exit. As he'd expected, Shreve was waiting outside, smoking. The girl who'd been draped all over her had disappeared and the look on her face was speculative.
"That the guy we did the run for?"
"Yep."
Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, he headed for Main, his navigator matching his steps.
"Riki."
Startled, he looked over at Shreve. He'd known her for most of his self-imposed exile and she was the only person from off-world who knew his real name, though she rarely used it. He'd told her little about his past, but she was smart enough to realize that he and Katze weren't strangers.
"I knew you were from this system. But I never woulda guessed here."
A sharp crack of laughter burst from his throat.
"Thanks, babe. You don't know how much I appreciate that. Better a street-bum from Akkaad than a Ceres mongrel."
They walked in silence for a while, comfortable in each other's company.
"Thinkin' about cashing in?" Shreve's voice pulled Riki from Blondie-dominated thoughts. "If you are, talk to me first. I'll buy most of your share. And I know a couple of decent pilots looking for a permanent ship."
"Hell, I don't know. Depends on a lotta things."
"You got somebody here?"
It was a fascinating idea to the navigator. Anyone who touched Flyboy with sexual intent—man or woman—was likely to lose a hand. Shreve glanced at the Hope's pilot just in time to see a small smile form.
"Yeah. Yeah, you could say that." He stopped suddenly, and she came to a stand-still beside him. "Look up, Shreve."
Doing as requested, her eyes followed Flyboy's finger, and then she was gaping at the most fantastic architectural nightmare she'd seen in her thirty years.
"What the hell is that?" she asked in a stifled voice.
"Eos. The most prominent part of it, anyway. I used to live there, all the way at the top. Remember those Blondies you were so interested in?"
She nodded, but he didn't see the movement. He was still gazing up at Tanagura's tallest Tower.
"Long time ago, I belonged to one."
5
Nearly falling through his Midas apartment's port, Katze activated his personal security then leaned back against the closed door. He was exhausted, and rightfully so.
After leaving the Cantina, he'd wandered for a while, trying to force his thoughts to some kind of coherency. It hadn't worked. He'd ended up on the edge of Midas; the place where it blended gradually into the slum.
Both he and Riki had escaped. Neither of their lives had gone as they'd thought they would, though. He rolled his head against the unyielding surface beneath it. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Com Iason? He could just imagine how that conversation would go.
So... you saw Riki, exchanged a few insults, then let him leave without following. Are you sure you're not indulging in a recreational enhancer, Katze?
And let's not forget that kiss. He thumped his skull against the port. Hard. Damn Riki to the nine hells and back. Pushing himself away from the door, he walked tiredly towards a lounge.
"Li-,"
A hand slid smoothly over his mouth, carefully leaving his nose uncovered, while a steely band wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms in place. Memories three years old swamped him and he fought against the unbelievably strong grip, panic rising.
"Do not," a low, masculine voice spoke in his ear. "I mean you no harm."
The tone seemed familiar, though the phrasing was odd. They stood like that for long moments, and when nothing further happened, Katze's frantic breathing began to slow.
"I will release you," the voice told him, "if you'll give your word not to attack me. It would only result in injury to your person. I'm afraid the lights will remain extinguished for the present."
Staring out into the moonlit great room, Katze debated with himself. He had a las-gun in his shoulder harness, but he didn't think he could get to it in time. Besides, the man holding him could feel it.
Better to get free, then decide what tack to take. He nodded once and the paralyzing grip loosened. A hand slid into his jacket, removing the gun from its holster, and the stranger let him go completely, melting back into the shadows from which he'd come.
The red mongrel turned, following the movement, but could see nothing more than a tall, dark outline. He took a step towards his unwelcome guest.
"Who the hell are you? What do you want?"
"You are Katze, correct?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I may only tell you that if you are Katze, formerly a Furniture, presently Boss of Midas," the other man replied imperturbably.
Fear began to fade, irritation taking its place.
"Sure, that's me. Now you tell me what the hell you're doing in my apartment!"
Gliding from clinging gloom into the moonlight streaming through the room's wide bank of windows, the stranger stopped a short distance away. Katze looked up into the face of impossibility and felt as if he'd stepped through his front door into another universe.
The man topped his own height by a good 10 cm. Clothed entirely in black leather, his boots of the same material, he might have done a decent impression of a mongrel... except that his long braid was white-blonde, and his features—Katze had seen those before, many times. On his boss's face.
"Your city's stability has been undermined. It will only grow progressively worse," said the man who was not Iason Mink.
"What?"
A slight smile tilted beautifully sculpted lips in an expression so like Iason's that it almost hurt Katze to see it.
"You run Tanagura's black market, so you must be brighter than you seem. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. I've a message for your employer. If he is willing to meet with me, I can provide him the source of Tanagura's troubles. And a possible way to end them."
It occurred to Katze, through the stupefaction clouding his brain, that he'd just been insulted. Then the stranger's last words penetrated. The man had already turned to leave, so he stepped forward, closing his hand around one leather-clad arm. The muscle beneath his fingers went rock hard with tension and he quickly let go.
"Tell me who you are and how to reach you. I can't just say that some guy wants to see him about the power failures."
The ironic smile returned, and Katze noticed that there were slight differences between Iason and this man. The stranger's high cheek-bones were more pronounced, his face less oval. And he couldn't be sure in the uncertain light, but he thought the eyes were silver, not blue; a color he'd never seen before on a Blondie.
"I am called Apollo. Come to Cervantes, tomorrow evening. Midas. I will be around. Katze."
The gilt braid was flipped back over one broad shoulder and the stranger walked towards the port, giving the dealer another difference to add to his growing pile. Where the Blondie he knew moved with languid grace, this man prowled like a stalking felis, as though prepared to attack at any moment.
The port swished shut and the stranger was gone. Katze slumped against the nearest lounge, staring at his closed door. The man who called himself Apollo looked and sounded like Iason. Hell, even the expressions were similar. But he dressed like a mongrel and moved like a trained killer.
When the lights came on, Katze frowned. The unknown Blondie obviously had outside help.
Closing his eyes, Midas' Boss dropped his head forward. And wondered, not for the first time, what terrible thing he'd done to be given a permanent place of honor on the gods' shit-list.
"You got in okay?"
"Yes."
"Was he there?"
"Yes."
"Dammit, am I gonna have to drag every word out of you? What the hell happened?!"
"He was... not as I expected. A strange creature to be at the zenith of Iason Mink's enterprises."
"I wouldn't underestimate him." The voice's tone was exquisitely dry. "Have you forgotten the Tower?"
"No, and that is what puzzles me," came the low reply. "He seems young, for his position."
"Well, he's not. He's only five years behind Mink, who, as you very well know, just hit thirty-four. Ancient." The voice was rich with dark amusement.
An inelegant grunt was the only response.
"Did you set up a meeting?"
"In a way. I'll go by Cervantes tomorrow. If he's there, fine. I do not like dealing with people. You know that. I've no idea why you didn't go yourself." This time there was distinct irritation in the deep tones.
"Bitch and moan, bitch and moan. Sure you know why, so quitcher whinin'. Besides, you've got no room to complain. A year ago you wouldn't have had the luxury of choice. Hell, I'm just glad to be out of the damn tank. Never knew breathing would feel so good."
A lighter snapped open and flame flared briefly in the darkness of the room. Deep inhalation. Long, smoky exhale.
"Those things cannot be good for you." The low voice sounded thoroughly disapproving. "She would not have wanted it."
"Damned glad to hear it. Anything else you can think of that she'd hate, you just let me know."
"Your rebellion is without point. She is no longer in existence."
"Now that's where you're wrong, bro. As long as I'm still alive... as long as we're still alive... so is she. The least I can do is fuck up this damn body."
"I am sorry." The low voice softened. "I should have-,"
"Nothing you could have done, so don't even think about it." The tone was sharp, the words bitten off. "It's finished, and as far as I'm concerned there're only a couple of things left to take care of."
"And those are?"
"Kill Di. Then transport our asses off this rock so fast it'll make your head implode."