Simon R. Green - Deathstalker Prelude 01 - Mistworld

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Mistworld by Simon R. Green

MISTWORLD

Call her Mary. When she sang, she could break your heart or mend it, but that was before the Empire

found and used her. Now she's just another refugee, running for her life. Deep within her, madness stirs.

Her name is Mary. Typhoid Mary. And nobody in Mistport will ever forget her.

CHAPTER ONE

A Ghost in the Night

A low, gusting wind came moaning out of the north, unsettling the snow-flecked mists that filled the

narrow Mistport streets. Lamps and lanterns hung at every door, burning yellow and red and orange

against the endless sea of grey. The mists were always at their thickest in the early hours of the morning,

before the rising of Mistworld's pale sun.

A dim figure padded confidently across a slippery slate roof, his slender frame barely visible amidst the

swirling snow flurries. The pure white of his thermal suit blended harmoniously into the snow and the

mists, whilst its heating elements insulated him from the wind's cutting edge. The man called Cat crouched

down by an outjutting attic window and pushed back his suit's cowl, revealing pale, youthful features

dominated by dark watchful eyes and the pockmarks that tattooed both cheeks. He winced as the

freezing air seared his bare face, and then he slid carefully down the snow-smeared tiles to bump into a

gently smoking chimneystack. He took a firm hold on the uneven brickwork and leaned out from the roof

to stare about him.

From his high vantage point there lay stretched out before him all the tiled and gabled rooftops of

Mistport, his hunting ground and private kingdom. Cat had spent most of his twenty years learning his

trade and refining his craft to become one of the finest burglars Thieves Quarter had ever produced. The

ornately carved and curlicued wood and ironwork of Mistport's buildings were hand- and footholds to

him, the cornices and gables his landmarks and resting places.

Cat was a roof runner.

Light from the huge half-moon shone clearly through the curling mists, reflecting brightly from the

snow-covered roofs and streets and setting out the scene below in eerie starkness. To Cat's left lay the

scattered glow of Thieves Quarter, sprawled in a tangle of shabby streets, where out-leaning timbered

buildings huddled together as though for warmth in the cold night. Its occasional lights shown crimson

against the dark, like rubies set on velvet. To his right lay Tech Quarter, and the starport.

Sensor spikes blazed in the night, blue stormfire shivering up and down the slender crystal lances. Oil

lamps and torches burned in regular patterns across the starport grounds, marking out the huge landing

pads, each of them half a mile wide. Of all the port's buildings only the steelglass control tower, last

remnant of the Empire's original Base, still boasted bright electric lights. Less than a dozen ships lay on

the landing pads, mostly abandoned hulks stripped down for the high tech they possessed. A handful of

smugglers' ships lay scattered across one pad, five silver needles glowing ruddy from the flickering

torches. Beacons suddenly flared into life around the largest pad, like corpsefires on a newly built cairn,

and Cat realised with a thrill of excitement that there was a ship coming in. Ships of any kind were

growing rare these days, and any new arrival was good news. Cat turned reluctantly away, and looked

down at the streets below him.

Nobody moved in the empty alleyways, and the pale blanket of freshly fallen snow remained unbroken.

Only thieves and spies braved the bitter cold of Mistport's night, and they never left tracks.

Cat pulled his cowl back up to shield his face, and releasing his hold on the chimneystack, he slipped

carefully over the roofs edge. He took a firm grip on the narrow drainpipe and slowly eased himself

headfirst over the edge until he was hanging upside down, his feet hooked firmly under the gutter. The

rusty ironwork groaned under his weight, but held firm as he thoughtfully studied the small steel-latticed

window before him. The window was less than two feet square, and the grille was cast from stainless

steel.How very unhospitable , thought Cat.Anyone would think they were afraid of being burgled .

He looked more closely at the window frame, and smiled complacently as he spotted two slender wires

attached to the upper right-hand corner of the grille, which disappeared into the brickwork to no

apparent purpose. Obviously an alarm of some kind. Cat drew a pair of miniature cutters from inside his

left boot, reached out to cut the wires, and then hesitated. The wires were too obvious. He checked

again, and grinned wryly as he discovered a small electronic sensor fitted flush into the grille's ironwood

frame. Touch the grille or the frame, and the sensor would set off an alarm. Cat slipped the cutters into

his glove, and drawing a slender steel probe from his right boot, he delicately shorted out the sensor with

the casual skill of long practice. He slipped the probe back into his boot, and then took the cutters and

carefully snipped both of the wires, just in case. He put the cutters back in his left boot, took out a small

screwdriver, and calmly set about undoing the four simple screws that held the grille in place.

Blood pounded in his head from being upside down so long, but he ignored it as best he could and

refused to be hurried. He dropped three of the screws one by one into the white leather pouch at his belt,

and then put away the screwdriver and tugged cautiously at the steel grille. It came easily away in his

hands, and hung loosely by the one remaining screw. Cat grinned. So far, everything was going as

planned. He pushed aside the grille and slipped an arm through the window. His head followed, and then

he breathed gently as his chest and back scraped against the unyielding ironwood frame. He took a firm

grip on the inner frame with his hand, and then, taking a deep breath, he worked his feet loose from

under the gutter. His body jerked violently in the window frame as his legs fell free, but the jolt wasn't

enough to pull him back out the window. He waited a moment while his breathing steadied, and then

released his grip on the inner frame. Inch by inch he worked his upper torso through the narrow gap, and

then his waist and hips followed easily. Only someone as wiry and limber as he could have managed it.

Which was one of the reasons why even Cat's rivals acknowledged him as the finest roof runner in

Mistport.

He swung lithely down from the window, and crouched motionless in the shadows while his eyes

adjusted to the gloom. A narrow hallway stretched away before him, with a stairway to his left and two

closed doors to his right. Moonlight spilled through the open window behind him, but even Cat's

experienced eyes were hard put to make out details in the darkness beyond the shimmering light. He

took off his gloves and tucked them into his belt, and flexed his long, slender fingers through a quick

series of exercises. To a good burglar, the hands were just as important as the tools they used. Cat

always looked after his hands. He gingerly pressed the tips of his fingers against the floor, and then closed

his eyes, concentrating on the feel of the polished wood. Faint vibrations tingled under his fingertips, and

Cat frowned thoughtfully. There were sensor panels hidden in the floor, no doubt designed to set off all

kinds of alarms if a man's weight triggered them. Still without opening his eyes, Cat leant slowly forward

and swept his fingers back and forth across the floor in a series of widening arcs, judging by the rise and

fall of the vibrations where it was safe and where it was not. He slowly worked his way forward, inch by

inch, until he was sure he'd located the main pattern, and then he opened his eyes, stood up, and padded

confidently down the hallway, easily avoiding the treacherous areas.

Just like the old game, he thought dryly.Step on a crack, break your mother's back . . . And then he

frowned, remembering how long it had been since Mistport could afford to maintain paved sidewalks.

The times were not what they had been. Cat shrugged, and moved quickly on to the lower of the two

doors. The sooner this part of the job was over, the better; the same white suit that hid him in the snow

and the mists was wildly conspicuous in a dark deserted corridor.

He stopped before the closed lower door, and studied it warily. His fence had briefed him as thoroughly

as possible on the house's exterior, but hadn't been able to tell him much about the inside. The door had

to be booby-trapped in some way; it was what Cat would have done. He ran his fingers gently over the

harsh-grained wood, but couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary. He took a pencil torch from inside

his right boot and thumbed it on. Then, leaning closer, he ran his gaze over the door frame, inch by inch.

Sure enough there was a small, slightly raised button high up on the frame; a simple catch that was

released when the door opened. Cat shook his head dolefully at such a meagre testing of his talents, and

taking the steel probe from his boot, he slipped it quickly past the button to turn it off. And then Cat

frowned, and pulled back the probe. The alarm button was already in the off position; they must have

forgotten to set it before going to bed. Cat rolled his eyes heavenwards. This was becoming ridiculously

easy. He snapped off the pencil torch, put away both torch and probe, and taking a firm grip on the door

handle, slowly eased the door open. He checked quickly for backup alarms, and then peered cautiously

into the bedroom.

A sparse light filtered past the bolted shutters to show him a dim form huddled under thick blankets in

the canopied bed that took up most of the small bedroom. A few glowing coals burned redly in the

fireplace to his right, taking the chill off the air. Cat slipped into the room, closed the door behind him and

moved over to the bed, silent as the ghost he seemed. He paused briefly as the sleeper stirred and then

lay still again. Cat didn't carry any weapons; he didn't believe in them. He was a roof runner and an artist

at his craft, not some bully boy vandal or heartless thief in the night. Cat had his standards. He stood

motionless beside the bed until he was sure it was safe to move again, and then he leant forward over the

sleeping shape and reached out his hand. Judging his moment nicely, he eased his hand under the pillow

and drew out a small brass-bound casket. The bed's occupant slept on, undisturbed. Cat stepped back

from the bed, drew a small key from the pouch at his belt, and tried it cautiously in the casket's lock. The

key turned easily, and Cat grinned broadly as he pushed back the lid and the crystal in the casket blazed

light into the room.

As an Outlaw planet, Mistworld was cut off from Empire trade, and high tech was limited to what the

smugglers could bring in on their infrequent visits. A computer's memory crystal thus became far more

tempting loot than any diamond or ruby. Cat didn't know what information the crystal held, and didn't

care. His fence said she had a buyer for the jewel, and that was all that mattered. Cat reached into the

pouch at his belt and brought out a blank crystal, glowing twin to the jewel in the casket. He carefully

substituted one crystal for the other, closed the casket lid, and locked it. He dropped the key back into

his pouch, and then leaned forward and deftly replaced the casket where he'd found it. His hand had

barely left the pillow when the bedroom door suddenly flew open. Light flooded the room, and a tall

figure with a lantern filled the doorway.

Cat pulled the blankets from the bed and with one desperate heave threw them over the newcomer's

head. The bed's occupant sat up sharply, pulling a silk nightdress about her, and Cat paused to drop her

an appreciative wink. The newcomer struggled furiously on the floor, helplessly entangled in the

bedclothes. The dropped lantern lay on its side in the doorway, filling the room with a flickering light. Cat

decided it was time he was going. He stepped carefully round the pile of heaving blankets and made for

the open door. The woman in the canopied bed opened her mouth and sang.

Cat sank to his knees as the song washed over him, scrambling his nervous system.A Siren! he thought

wildly.They set a Siren to guard the crystal! The song screamed through his body, shaking in his

muscles. He lurched to his feet, considered punching the woman out, decided this was no time to be

heroic, and plunged for the doorway. The Siren's song washed over him in waves, numbing his hands and

feet and blurring his eyesight.

Cat staggered out the door and down the passageway, paying no attention to the pressure alarms in the

floor, just concentrating all his will on not giving in to the Siren song that was trying to batter him

unconscious. He finally reached the window through which he'd entered, and pulled himself up into the

narrow opening. He wriggled through the window with desperate speed, and then his heart missed a beat

as a hand closed around his ankle, bringing him lurching to a halt. He kicked and struggled wildly, and the

hand lost its grip and fell away. Cat pulled himself out the window, grabbed the drainpipe, and hauled

himself up towards the roof. He scrambled over the gutter and then collapsed to lie flat on the

snow-covered tiles. He lay there a while shaking in every limb, slowly relaxing as he realised he'd left the

Siren's song behind. A woman whose voice and esp could combine to scramble a man's thoughts was an

impressive guard. Unless, of course, the burglar happens to be a deaf mute . . .

Cat grinned, and rising quickly to his feet, he padded away into the mists. For the first time in years, he

was glad not to have heard something.

CHAPTER TWO

A Gathering of Traitors

The reception area of Leon Vertue's office was warm, comfortable, and desperately civilised, and Jamie

Royal hated it. Much as he appreciated good living and luxury, he resented having his nose rubbed in it.

There was something decidedly smug in the office's ostentatious display of wealth. The sign over the

modestly plain front door had said simply blacksmith, but Jamie doubted that anyone who worked in this

luxurious office would know an anvil if they fell over it. He sighed, leant back in his recliner chair, and

tried to look as though he was used to such comforts. He surreptitiously trailed his fingers across the

slick, shining surface of the chair's arms. Plastic. Now that was real luxury. Jamie could count the number

of times he'd seen plastic on the fingers of one hand. More and more, he felt that he was very much out

of his depth.

He crossed one leg over the other, and tried to at least look relaxed. He glanced casually about the

office, hoping to find a lapse in taste so he could sneer at it. The wooden wall panels gleamed dully in the

light of the banked fire, and the single great window was closed and shuttered against the night cold. The

main light came from a single overhead lightsphere set into the ceiling. Jamie didn't care much for the

electric light. It was brighter than he was used to, and he didn't like its unwavering intensity. There was

something cold about electric light, cold and . . . unnatural. Jamie put the thought firmly from his mind,

and concentrated his attention on the gorgeous redheaded secretary sitting behind her desk. Her flawless

skin had a rich peaches-and-cream glow, even under the harsh electric light, and her features had a

sharp, classical perfection. Her figure was simply spectacular. Jamie cleared his throat loudly, and gave

her his most charming smile. She didn't look particularly impressed. Jamie sighed, and went back to

looking around the office.

Papers and magazines lay scattered across the coffee table before him, but they were all at least a week

old, well past the date when they should have been handed in for recycling. The headlines were mainly

concerned with the discovery of the wrecked starshipDarkwind , and a few vague allegations of

corruption within the Communications Guild. Stale news, not yet old enough to be interesting again

through hindsight. Jamie Royal leant back in his luxurious chair and let his mind wander. Ever since he'd

split up with his last partner his luck had gone from bad to worse. Madelaine Skye had been an excellent

partner, but unfortunately she turned out to be somewhat overburdened with scruples. Partly her sister's

fault. Dear Jessica. A nice-looking girl, much like Madelaine, but about as much use as a chocolate

kettle. How a warrior like Madelaine had ended up with such a wet blanket for a sister was beyond him.

Jamie smiled slightly, remembering. Jessica hadn't exactly been impressed with him, either.

Looking back, it was a wonder he and Madelaine had stayed together as long as they had. Much as he

hated to admit it, Jamie missed her. If nothing else, she'd had enough sense to keep him away from

people like this. Jamie smiled fondly. Sweet Madelaine, a good fighter and a better partner. If only things

had been different . . . Jamie shook his head firmly. What was past was past, and should be forgotten.

Bored, he looked about him. The receptionist was buffing her nails with great thoroughness and intense

concentration, but Jamie wasn't fooled. He'd spotted the throwing knife strapped to her shapely calf. He

sighed regretfully, and then shifted uneasily in his recliner chair. There was such a thing as too much

comfort. Get used to living in luxury and all too soon you started getting soft; and in Jamie's business

growing soft could get you killed. Jamie Royal had enemies. He also had debts, which was why he'd

come to Leon Vertue's body bank.

"Mr. Royal? Dr. Vertue will see you now."

"Very kind of him," murmured Jamie. The receptionist gestured languidly at the door to her left, and then

went back to working on her nails. She didn't look up as Jamie walked past her desk, and he sighed

resignedly. You can't win them all.

The door led into a long narrow corridor, brightly lit by a dozen lightspheres set into the ceiling at regular

intervals. Jamie tore his eyes away from the lights and swallowed dryly. He'd known Vertue was rich, but

such a conspicuous use of electricity impressed the hell out of him. Jamie could have lived in extreme

comfort for over a year on what it must have cost Vertue just to have the lightspheres installed. He pulled

himself together and hurried down the corridor. It wouldn't do to keep Vertue waiting. He was said to be

touchy about such things.

The corridor turned a sharp corner halfway along, and finally ended in a single great door of polished

steel. Jamie looked for a door handle, but there wasn't one. He waited patiently before the steel door,

and studied himself in the bright, shining mirror. He looked more confident than he felt, but that wasn't

saying much. He pulled his jacket straight, and adjusted his cloak so that it hung in a more flattering

manner. The old grey cloak was showing its age, but it still kept out most of the cold and the snow, and

that was all Jamie had ever asked of a cloak. He scowled at his reflection, trying hard to look tough and

intimidating, but his mirror image remained stubbornly unimpressive. Jamie Royal was tall, thin, and

despite being only in his mid-twenties, well on his way to being prematurely bald. His chin was weak, his

stance was awkward, and if he had any muscles he kept them well hidden. It would have been easy to

dismiss him as harmless, if it hadn't been for his eyes. Jamie's eyes were dark and intense and very much

alive. They could express everything from camaraderie to staunch support to heartfelt sympathy without

meaning any of them. They were a con man's eyes, and Jamie was very proud of them.

He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot before the great steel door, his hands moving restlessly at his

sides. He felt naked without his sword and dagger, but he'd had to leave them at reception. Vertue was

possibly the most universally despised man in Mistport, and he didn't take chances. In certain quarters

the reward for delivering his head, preferably unattached to the body, continued to rise. Jamie looked up

at the security camera overhead, and smiled ingratiatingly. There was a faintly threatening hiss of

compressed air, and the door swung slowly open. Jamie drew himself up to his full height and walked

into Dr. Vertue's chamber as though he owned the place.

The walls of the vast room were lined with shining crystal. The glow from a single overhead sphere

reflected brightly from the walls, filling the chamber with a sharp silver light. Jamie came to a sudden halt

as the door slammed shut behind him. Dozens of bulky steel units took up most of the floor, and though

Jamie had never seen them before, he knew exactly what they were: reclamation tanks. The means

whereby a body could be broken down into its respective parts . . .

Each of the units was covered with a thick haze of frost, and Jamie shuddered as he looked about him.

Cold as Mistport's streets were, this place was colder. The presence of death hung heavily on the

freezing air, like the final echoes of a desperate scream. Jamie pulled his cloak tightly about him, and

walked reluctantly forward to meet the two men who stood waiting for him beside the nearest

reclamation tank.

The overly tall, stooped man on the left was Dr. Leon Vertue. Wrapped in thick furs of grubby white, he

had the appearance and bearing of a hungry wolf. His long white hair hung in thick greasy strands,

accentuating his gaunt features. His hands were large and powerful, but immaculately manicured.

Surgeon's hands. Jamie recognised him immediately, though they'd never met before. Most people had

heard of Dr. Vertue, but no one associated with him by choice. Vertue was the owner-manager of

Mistport's main body bank. They were all illegal, of course, but a man who needs an organ transplant to

save his life isn't going to be too fussy about where the replacement organ comes from. And there were

always men and women from the back streets and alleyways who would never be missed . . .

The man standing beside Vertue was a stranger to Jamie, but he recognised the type. The man looked

hard, vicious, and competent, and he wore his long jet-black hair pulled back in a mercenary's scalplock.

The sharply defined lines in his face showed him to be in his early forties at least, but there was nothing

soft or tired about the corded muscles that stirred restlessly as the mercenary moved lightly from one foot

to the other. He wore a plain black thermal suit and a black fur half-cloak. There was a sword on his left

hip, and a gun on his right. His face and forehead bore the ritual scars of the Hawke Clan, which meant

that he was one of the Empire's finest professional fighting men. It also meant he was very expensive.

Jamie wondered how many men the mercenary had killed in his long career, and then quickly decided

that he didn't want to know. Even standing perfectly still and relaxed, there was something . . . dangerous

about the man. Jamie looked away and wished fiercely that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

He glanced uneasily through the glass top of the reclamation tank before him. Curling blue mists seethed

and roiled continuously in the unit, as though struggling to escape. Jamie wondered briefly if the tank

contained a body, and if so, whose. He told himself firmly that it was none of his business, and looked

back at Dr. Vertue and his mercenary. Jamie coughed politely to show he was waiting for them to open

the conversation, and Vertue smiled lazily at him. The doctor's pale eyes and long white hair gave him an

anemic, washed-out look, but Jamie wasn't fooled. Vertue's smile showed him for the predator he was.

"Dear Jamie," said Vertue silkily. "So nice of you to come and see me at such short notice. Not that you

had any choice in the matter, of course."

"Of course," said Jamie. "Now what the hell do you want?"

The mercenary stiffened slightly, but Jamie carefully kept his eyes fixed on Vertue. He couldn't afford to

sound cowed, or they'd walk all over him. He knew, and they knew, he was going to end up doing

whatever Vertue wanted, but if he acted like a servant he'd get treated like one. His only chance of

getting out of this with his hide intact was to act as though he still had an ace or two hidden up his sleeve.

Though given his present situation, he'd have settled for a jack or a ten.

"I want you to do me a favour, Jamie," said Vertue, still smiling. "And in return, I'll do you a favour.

What could be more simple?"

"What indeed?" said Jamie easily. "Suppose you get a little more specific, and I'll tell you whether or not

I'm interested."

"Would you like me to break one of his arms?" asked the mercenary. His voice was low, calm, pleasant;

he might have been asking the time or making polite conversation.

"Maybe later," said Dr. Vertue. "You have to make allowances for Jamie, my dear Blackjack. He has

hidden qualities."

"I don't have to make allowances for anyone," said Blackjack. "But you're the boss."

Jamie felt a few beads of sweat appear on his forehead, despite the cold. He had no doubt the

mercenary had meant what he said.

"Forgive me for seeing you in this intemperate climate," said Vertue, "but I have a job here that really

can't wait much longer. You understand how it is; I wouldn't want the merchandise to spoil. . . ."

"Anyone I know?" asked Jamie flippantly.

"I believe so," said Dr. Vertue. "Her name was Skye. Madelaine Skye."

Jamie fought to keep his face impassive.No . . . Oh no, not Madelaine . . . They'd been partners for

almost three years. They'd never been lovers, but they could have been. Madelaine Skye, a good woman

to have at your back in a fight, or at your side in a bar. They'd worked together on a hundred different

jobs, on both sides of the law. He'd always admired her guts, and her expertise. The best damned

partner he'd ever had. Jamie Royal had many acquaintances but few friends. And now he had one less.

You bastards . . .

His hands curled into fists, and then he glanced at Blackjack and saw immediately that the mercenary

was just waiting for him to try and start something. Jamie fought down his anger, feeling it burn cold and

fierce in his gut. There'd be time for revenge later.

"Who killed her?" he asked quietly.

"Who do you think?" said Dr. Vertue.

Jamie carefully avoided looking at the smiling mercenary. "So Madeline's dead," he said finally. "Am I

supposed to be impressed by this?"

"I'll settle for intimidated," said Dr. Vertue. "Are you ready to discuss business now?"

Jamie Royal took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. The cold air seared his lungs, and the pain helped

to calm him. Not for the first time he swore to give up dice altogether. His winnings never lasted long, and

when he lost he ended up in situations like this. Jamie had worked with all sorts in his time, but Dr. Leon

Vertue represented an all-time low. There were those who said he'd been a clonelegger before coming to

Mistport, and Jamie could well believe it.

"I'm always ready to discuss business," said Jamie steadily. "What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing too difficult," purred Dr. Vertue. "You are familiar with the Blackthorn tavern?"

"Sure," said Jamie. "Cyder's place. The most stony-hearted fence in Mistport, but her prices are fair.

More or less."

Vertue took a slim package from under his furs and handed it to Jamie. He hefted it once, and raised an

eyebrow at its weight.

"Cyder is holding a package for me," said Vertue. "I want you to go to the Blackthorn tavern tomorrow

evening, pick up that package, and give her yours in return. I'm entrusting you with a great deal of money,

Jamie; be careful not to lose it on your way to the Blackthorn."

Jamie nodded, and slipped the package into an inner pocket. "This package I'm picking up; what's in it?"

"A memory crystal. Do handle it with care, Jamie; as far as I and my associates are concerned, that

crystal's safety is far more important than your own. Should the crystal prove to be damaged in any way,

I would be most upset with you. Bring the crystal to me and place it in my hand, and your service to me

will be complete. In return, I will take care of your debts. All of them."

"That's it?" said Jamie, frowning. "You must be crazy, Vertue. There are any number of couriers who

could handle this for you, for a tenth of what it'll cost you to pay off all my debts. Why bother with me?"

"I need someone who is both discreet and reliable," said Vertue amiably. "Not to mention desperate. As

I'm sure you're aware, the theft of memory crystals carries the death penalty in Mistport. You will do this

little task for me, won't you, Jamie?"

"What makes you so sure you can trust me?"

"Your word is said to be good," said Vertue, smiling faintly as though the idea amused him. "And you

and Cyder know each other well. Too well for either of you to even think of trying a double-cross."

"But just supposing I should," said Jamie. "What could . . ."

Blackjack leaned forward suddenly, and one scarred hand shot out to wrap itself around Jamie's throat.

The mercenary bent Jamie back over the reclamation tank, and then grabbed his belt and lifted him up

and out over the unit. Dr. Vertue opened the tank's lid, and Blackjack started to lower Jamie towards the

curling blue mists. He kicked and struggled, gasping and choking for air, but he couldn't break the

mercenary's grip. Jamie looked down into the mists with bulging eyes. The blue mists swirled eagerly,

hungrily, and beyond them he could see light glinting on the many saws and scalpels that stood ready to

pare him down to his essential elements; so much skin, so much bone and cartilage, various organs, and

of course the eyes. There was always a demand for eyes. Blackjack lowered him into the curling mists,

and only the mercenary's choking hand kept Jamie from screaming.

"Enough," said Dr. Vertue, and Blackjack swung Jamie away from the tank and placed him carefully on

his feet again. He let go, and Jamie sagged against the side of the unit, gasping for breath and not even

trying to hide the unsteadiness in his legs. To be placed alive into the reclamation tank, to die inch by

bloody inch as the scalpels and saws cut into you . . .

I'm sorry, Madelaine . . . I can't even avenge you. I'm too scared.

Jamie realised he was leaning on the reclamation tank to support himself. He quickly pulled his hand

away and stood up straight. Vertue chuckled quietly. Blackjack didn't even smile.

"You won't betray me, Jamie," said Dr. Vertue. "Who else can afford to pay off all your debts? And

besides, if you should even contemplate such a thing, I'll send Blackjack to fetch you. You have very

lovely skin, my dear Jamie. I could get five thousand credits for two square feet of your skin. Go to the

Blackthorn tavern tomorrow evening. Collect the package from Cyder. Pay for it. Hurry back here. Got

it?"

"Got it," said Jamie. "Can I go now?"

"By all means," said Dr. Vertue.

Jamie Royal turned and walked unsteadily out of the freezing cold chamber. His hands were trembling

and his legs shook, but he had enough self-respect left that he wouldn't allow himself to hurry. They could

scare him, but they couldn't make him run. The door swung open before him, and he stepped out into the

corridor. He waited until the door closed behind him, and then he leant back against the cold metal and

wiped at his face with a shaking hand. Sweat was pouring down his face, as though he'd just stepped out

of a furnace rather than an icebox. Vertue and Blackjack were probably watching him on the security

camera, but he didn't care anymore. Vertue hadn't said what he wanted the memory crystal for, but then

he hadn't had to. There was only one place willing to pay that badly for a Mistport memory crystal. Only

one place that could regularly supply Vertue with the kind of high tech he needed to run his business and

maintain his lifestyle. Only one place that would supply a mercenary like Blackjack for a bodyguard. The

Empire. Dr. Leon Vertue was an Imperial agent. And now, so was Jamie Royal.

If I didn't have so many debts. . .

Jamie shook his head bitterly, and walked away down the corridor. Memories of Madelaine Skye

pressed close around him, but he wouldn't look at them. He didn't dare. It was her own fault; she should

have chosen her partners more wisely.

Leon Vertue watched the monitor thoughtfully until Jamie disappeared around the corner in the corridor.

"Can he be trusted?" said Blackjack quietly.

Vertue shrugged. "He's reliable enough, in his fashion, and you frightened him quite convincingly."

"And when he's finished his work for us?"

"We can't leave any witnesses," said Vertue, smiling gently. "And there's always room in my units for one

more body. There's so much demand these days."

Blackjack looked at him calmly. "That's a hell of a bedside manner you've got there, Doctor. Now if

you'll excuse me, theBalefire will be landing soon, and I have a few security guards to bribe first."

"There's no rush," said Vertue. "TheBalefire will be placed under quarantine until Port Director Steel

returns from his Council meeting. And that won't be for some time. Meanwhile, I have another job for

you. I want you to kill someone."

"When and where?"

"Tonight, at the city boundary; Merchants Quarter. The . . . target we discussed earlier."

"Good," said Blackjack, smiling slightly. "I've been looking forward to that."

He turned and left without waiting for Vertue's reply, and the door opened before him and shut after him.

Vertue scowled at the monitor screen as Blackjack strolled unconcernedly down the corridor. Leon

Vertue had seen things and done things that would have sickened any normal man, but still he was scared

of the black-clad mercenary. Vertue pouted angrily. He didn't like to be scared; it upset him. Vertue had

many ways of dealing with those who upset him, all of them thoroughly unpleasant. He smiled reluctantly

as his memories calmed him, but still his frown remained.

He looked back at the monitor, but Blackjack had already disappeared from sight. Vertue licked his dry

lips, and felt a little of the tension drain out of him. Even though they currently worked for the same

masters, Vertue had never felt comfortable in the mercenary's presence. Under the polite phrases and

stoic calm, he'd seen a deep contempt burning in Blackjack's eyes, a contempt for everything and

everyone who wasn't strong.

Vertue scowled thoughtfully. He wouldn't always need the mercenary . . . and there was always room in

the reclamation tanks for one more body. He smiled suddenly, and laughed softly to himself. Leon Vertue

turned his attention to the reclamation tank before him, and ran his hand caressingly over the

moisture-beaded lid. He thumbed a control and the swirling blue mists parted briefly, allowing him a

glimpse of the cold white face below. Frost covered her staring eyes. She was very pretty. So very

pretty. And her flesh would be so cold and inviting and helpless to his touch. . . .

CHAPTER THREE

Decisions in Council

The Council chamber was surprisingly wide and roomy, but its timbered ceiling was as low as in any

other dwelling in Mistport. The howling spring gales made living in tall structures without high-tech

support a risky business. Oil lamps and blazing torches lent the chamber a comforting golden glow, and a

battered old heating unit murmured quietly to itself as it supplied a slow, steady warmth. Faded portraits

of past Councillors lined the panelled walls, the familiar brooding faces staring down at the present

Council with a stern watchfulness. A great circular table dominated the room. Almost thirty feet in

diameter, and carved from a single huge block of ironwood, it had been commissioned by the original

Mistport Council over ninety years ago. Port Director Gideon Steel ran his plump fingers caressingly over

the polished wood of the tabletop, and tried not to yawn as the arguments around him droned on and on.

His chair creaked complainingly as his two hundred pounds of weight stirred restlessly. Steel was

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