Margaret Weis & Don Perrin - Mag Force 7 - Hung Out

TXT - Weis, Margaret & Don Perrin - Hung Out.txt

HUNG OUT

MARGARET WEIS

DON PERRIN

A ROC BOOK

ROC

Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England Penguin Books

Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia Penguin Books Canada Ltd,

10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Roc, an imprint of Dutton NAL, a member of Penguin

Putnam Inc.

First Printing, August, 1998

10 987654321

art by Steve Youll No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own

wings.

--William Blake, "Proverbs of Hell"

CHAPTER 1

The use of a trick or stratagem permits the intended victim to make his

own mistakes.

Carl von Clausewitz, On War

The buzzing was annoying, seriously annoying. Annoying because the buzz

was letting Jafar el Amadi know there was something he should do and he

didn't want to do it. He wished the buzz would stop, and it did for a

moment; then, just as he was starting to drift back to sleep, the buzz

began again.

His wife, stretched out in the bed beside him, gave him a punch in the

back. "It's the phone," she said drowsily. "Answer the phone."

Amadi woke up, peered bleary-eyed at the phone on the nightstand beside

his bed.

"What time's it?" his wife mumbled.

Amadi rubbed his eyes, brought the clock into focus. "Two in the

morning."

The buzzing continued, insistent.

"It's probably a wrong number," he said.

"Uh-huh." His wife pulled the blanket over her head, rolled away from

him. "Tell them you're retired."

Amadi lifted the phone. "Yeah?"

"I'm calling about that order you placed, sir," said a female voice at

the other end.

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"Do you know what time it is?" Amadi snapped. "It's two o'clock in the

morning!"

"Sorry, sir. I just thought you'd want to know, sir, that the item you

requested has been located."

"What item? What the hell are we talking about? Is this some goddam

vidalog company? Because if it is--"

"I have the order here, sir. Your authorization: Delta 750-6711-9."

Good God! It was the Bureau.

"Oh." Amadi was now very awake. That was his authorization code, but

what the hell were they talking about? "What's it in regard to?"

"Body parts for a cyborg, sir. Would you like to go ahead and place your

order, sir?"

"I need more details--color and size and all that."

"Very good, sir. I'll give you a number to call for customer service.

Ask for order number 7/66/807/9. Sorry I woke you, sir, but this was

marked 'urgent.'"

The other end clicked. The connection was broken.

Amadi sat and frowned at the warm green glow of the clock for another

moment, then he slid his feet into his bedroom slippers and eased

himself out of bed. His wife was used to late-night phone calls, used to

him roaming about the house at all hours, used to him leaving in the

middle of the night. Of course, that had been before he had retired,

when he had still been with the Bureau.

It had been years since he'd received a late-night phone call, probably

one reason it had taken him such a long time to respond. In the old

days, he would have been wide awake at the first buzz. But at age

seventy, he'd come to relish his warm bed and a good night's sleep.

Giving his wife a customary reassuring pat on the shoulder--a pat she

probably didn't feel because she'd gone back to sleep already--Amadi

grabbed his robe, threw it on. Yawning, he left the bedroom, visited the

John, then went downstairs. The dog, lying with his back pressed up

against the front door, opened one eye, thumped his tail against the

floor, and raised his head to see if he was needed.

"Go back to sleep, Charlie," Amadi said, moving through the hallway,

heading to the kitchen.

The dog obeyed gladly. He was an old dog and he, too, appreciated his

rest.

In the kitchen, Amadi brewed coffee, freshly ground, made the

old-fashioned way in a drip pot; none of that muddy water the replicator

turned out. He mulled over the cyborg matter as the coffee brewed. The

risk was immense, but he had already considered and discounted all his

other options. He cut himself a piece of pound cake--gone were the days

when he could drink six cups of coffee on an empty stomach--then carried

cake, a cup, and the coffeepot down another flight of stairs to the rec

room. Behind the vid, mounted on the wall, was a sensor device.

Amadi considered briefly attempting to juggle cake, cup, and pot in one

hand while he activated the sensor, but rejected the idea. His wife may

have been patient with late-night phone calls and her husband vanishing

for weeks at a time on some secret assignment, but she took a dim view

of coffee stains on the rug. Amadi placed his breakfast on an end table,

passed his hand twice over the sensor device, which was no more than a

tiny hole in the wall.

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A door disguised to look like part of the oak paneling slid aside. Amadi

retrieved his breakfast, making a mental note to himself to bring the

cup and coffeepot out of the room when he was finished. His wife would

be extremely irritated if one of her best china cups went missing, as it

had upon one occasion, only to turn up two weeks later with a fine

growth of mold on what was left of the coffee.

The door slid shut behind Amadi.

The room was small, soundproofed, fireproofed. It contained a desk, a

chair, a computer. Seating himself in front of the computer, Amadi gave

it his password. Once he and the Bureau were linked and each had

admitted that they knew the other, he went through more security

procedures. At last, the Bureau conceded that he had the right to be

where he was and to acquire the information he needed. He gave the

"order" number, which he had--from habit-- committed to memory as the

agent rattled it off. He munched cake while he waited, drank his coffee,

and yawned.

A woman's face appeared on the screen. He didn't know her, but that

wasn't unusual. He'd been retired for ten years. He knew few people in

the Bureau anymore.

She was human, mid-twenties, lean and mean, with skin the golden color

of olive oil, short-cut black hair, high cheekbones, an upturned nose,

full lips. Adjectives came to Amadi's mind: new, pert, hungry.

The voice belonging to the face was the same voice that had spoken to

him on the phone. She was seated at a desk in an office cubicle,

probably her own cubicle, for there were pictures stuck to the fabric

wall behind her. Family pictures. Mother and father. Three young men

standing together grinning at the cam with wide smiles. Probably

brothers. A white fluffy cat.

"Agent Rizzoli, sir. Petronella Rizzoli."

"Rizzoli." Amadi nodded, swallowed pound cake. "What do you have for

me?"

"We've located former agent Tambam ... Tampambulos, sir," she replied,

stumbling over the name.

"Good work, Rizzoli. He's not an easy person to track down. You have the

warrant? Is all in order?"

"A few local problems, sir."

Amadi frowned, displeased. "The reason I lured him to that planet was

because the locals promised there would be no trouble. Where's he

staying?"

"Where you said he would stay. He's at the home of his ex-wife, Marjorie

Tambamp ... Tamp--damn that's a hell of a name to pronounce. And any

rate, that's where he is, sir. At her home."

"Excellent. That's where I was hoping he'd go."

"We could never have removed him from Olefsky's world," Rizzoli agreed.

"Not without a fight."

"And they don't have the death penalty on Solgart," Amadi added. "So

what's he doing with his time in his ex-wife's house?"

"We intercepted several calls made to various parts of the galaxy. They

were all encrypted, unbreakable, but we believe that he's assembling the

Mag Force 7 team. He's also been in contact with the Royal Navy, one of

the lord admiral's adjutants, a Commander Tusca."

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"Probably doing a job for them."

"Will that present a problem, sir? When we arrest him?"

"The Navy won't like it, that's for damn sure, but they'll drop him like

a hot rock if we threaten to go public with the facts. Especially when

they hear the charge. How does the warrant read?"

"Murder, sir. First degree. The murder of his former partner, Dalin

Rowan."

Amadi closed his eyes. He wished he hadn't eaten the pound cake.

"He is a murderer, after all," Rizzoli continued. "And while the Navy

may hire murderers with impunity, they don't want it broadcast on the

six o'clock news."

"Is the Navy keeping an eye on him?"

"No, sir."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, sir. It's a quiet neighborhood, sir. Our agents have him under

surveillance, of course. We could spot one of their agents easily."

"And I'll bet that Tampambulos has spotted you," Amadi observed. "He was

a good agent, you know. One of the best."

"I doubt it, sir." Rizzoli was confident. "We've never even been near

the house. All visual surveillance has been carried out by our system of

satellites. We're monitoring everything going in and out of that house

from a base twenty-five kilometers away. We pick up every signal, every

phone call. And if a mouse crawls underneath the garage door, we see it

on the satellite report.

"The new orbital spectral analysis system allows us to 'see' to a

resolution of one centimeter, even through solid objects, such as the

roof. We could tell you if former Agent Tampambulous has a problem with

irregularity, sir. Which he doesn't. Every morning at around 0830, after

he has his coffee, he takes the morning paper into the John and--"

"Spare me the details," said Amadi. "I get the picture and, frankly, I

wish I hadn't." He had seen Xris when they'd first brought him to the

hospital, seen what was left of him.

"If you want my advice, Rizzoli, you'll arrest him now, this minute.

Don't wait until his friends show up. They're a dangerous bunch."

"We'd like to, sir, but there's a problem with the warrant."

Amadi had forgotten. He was going to have to start doubling up on his

old-age hormone injection shots. "Local police force giving you grief?"

"No, sir. They're eager to cooperate. The chief wants to see her name on

GNN. It's the legal system. We can't arrest him on a Crown warrant

alone; we have to have a local warrant as well."

Amadi dumped the remaining pound cake in the trash. "They want to review

the case, I suppose."

"Yes, sir. We've provided them with all the files, but they're taking

their own sweet time over it. The chief is putting pressure on the

prosecutor, though. She told us to expect the warrant by Monday."

"And when the hell is that? I'm half a universe away, you know."

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"Sorry, sir. Twenty-four hours, sir."

"Twenty-four hours. Time enough for his whole blasted personal army to

show up. Well, it can't be helped."

"We plan to go in at about 0400, sir, when everyone's asleep. We'll use

the standard flash-bang--"

"No, absolutely not!" Amadi said firmly. "These people are trained

mercenaries. They're armed and they're experts. What do you think

they're going to do if they wake up to find they're under attack?

Especially if you surprise them!"

"Well, sir, what do you suggest?"

"It's a suburban neighborhood," said Amadi. "Upper middle class. Kids

playing in the front yard next door. Tampambulous won't want to endanger

innocent civilians. He's not the type of person to start gunning down

toddlers. Go to the front door, ring the bell, hand him the warrant.

He'll come along peacefully. I guarantee it. I want him alive, Rizzoli.

Alive. He's no good to me dead."

What was her first name? Amadi wondered. Petro-something. He'd forgotten

that, too. Damn odd first name.

"Yes, sir." Rizzoli was all business, cool and professional. "Don't

worry, sir. We're taking extra care on this one. He killed one of our

own. We want to see him in the disrupter."

"Keep me posted." Amadi ended the meeting. .

He finished off the entire pot of coffee, then sent a memo to a man he

knew well--Andrew Robison. Formerly Amadi's boss in charge of the Hung

investigation, Robison was now head of Internal Affairs for the Bureau.

Robison was investigating Amadi, an interesting development and one that

Amadi wasn't supposed to know about.

The memo to Robison was headed, Tampambulos. Warrant issued. Arrest

imminent.

"There," Amadi muttered to himself. "That should make the son of a bitch

happy."

CHAPTER 2

...there is something about him, which even treachery cannot trust.

Public Advertiser, 22 June 1771, "Junius"

"So the message he sent me is accurate? Are you certain?"

"Yes, sir. I'm certain." Petronella smiled. "He assigned the grunt work

to me: issuing the warrant, arguing with the locals, all of that."

Head of Internal Affairs Andrew Robison frowned at the electronic

notepad he held in his hand, a pad that held all the details of a murder

case. After almost ten years, there'd finally been an arrest.

"I recorded our conversation, sir," Petronella told him.

"Secure?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir," Petronella replied coolly. She was not

accustomed to having her work questioned.

Robison gave a grunt that was tantamount to an apology.

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Petronella, knowing her boss, accepted the grunt and went on. "Here are

the codes to the encryption."

Robison pulled up the encrypted file, observed the conversation with

Amadi from Petronella's viewpoint. Robison frowned most of the time

during the conversation.

Petronella nodded. "Amadi thinks I'm a bumbling fool," she told Robison.

"As do most of my co-workers." She gave a sigh that, fortunately,

Robison didn't hear. He was replaying the vid.

Petronella liked her co-workers and respected them. They were, for the

most part, hardworking, dedicated, and loyal. They liked Petronella, but

they considered her young, inexperienced, and, on top of all that, a

Talisian who could not control the weird energy surges common to those

born on her home world. What they didn't know was that she could control

them, but chose not to do so. The fact that wherever Petronella Rizzoli

went chaos followed added immeasurably to her cover and it was one

reason she'd been recruited to work for FISA Internal Affairs. With all

the assignments she'd handled over the past five years, no one had ever

suspected she was a plant.

Petronella regarded Robison, her boss, with affection and a certain

amount of sympathy, though she was careful to reveal neither to him.

Robison was strictly professional and he expected his people to be the

same. But she was aware that this particular assignment must be tough on

him. He had once been Jafar el Amadi's chief superintendent. Robison and

Amadi had been close friends as well as co-workers. And now Robison was

placed in the position of exposing as a traitor a man whom he had once

admired.

There could not be two more different men, Petronella thought idly, as

she watched Robison watching Amadi. Jafar el Amadi could trace his

ancestors back to the Bedouins who had roamed the deserts of Old Earth.

Amadi was intensely proud of his heritage. His home was filled with

Arabic artifacts, decorated with paintings of men in flowing robes

riding magnificent and long-extinct Arabian stallions.

Looking at Amadi's face, with its hawk nose and fierce black hawk eyes,

Petronella could easily picture him riding among the dunes and she

thought it a pity that he should have betrayed such a noble lineage.

Robison, by contrast, was far more suited to an English tea room than

the wind-blown desert. Blond, with blue eyes and a thin face marked by a

very handsome aquiline nose, Robison was younger than Amadi by ten

years--a fact that some men might have resented, considering that

Robison had been Amadi's boss. If Amadi did, he didn't show it, although

perhaps that could have been the reason why he'd gone over to the enemy

camp.

Watching Amadi on the vid, listening to his voice, Petronella wondered

again what had driven him to commit such heinous crimes: marked his own

agents for death, aided and abetted in the deaths of thousands of

innocents, worked for one of the most ferocious, cruel, murderous

criminal organizations in the history of the galaxy.

For what? Money? Jealousy? Ambition?

No one knew. No one had been able to prove Amadi's complicity, although,

according to Robison, the Bureau had long suspected him.

"Amadi was clever enough to lay low when his bosses were going to

prison," Robison had told her at the beginning of this investigation.

"He took retirement soon after that. We could never prove anything. The

only person who might have been able to tie Amadi into the Hung was a

roan named Dalin Rowan. The victim of the murder."

"What I don't understand," Petronella said, after Robison had played

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through the vid a second time and was sitting, frowning, at the frozen

image of Amadi on the screen, "is why Amadi is risking exposure by

bringing this to light again after all these years."

Robison's thin lips, outlined by a pencil-thin mustache, tightened. He

regarded her speculatively, as if making up his mind whether to tell her

or not. Petronella might have been offended at this seeming lack of

trust, but she had become accustomed to going into cases without knowing

all the details. Andrew Robison never fully trusted anyone. The joke

among his staff was he entered data into his computer with his eyes

shut, so that he wouldn't reveal anything to anybody, himself included.

"I'll tell you why," Robison said finally.

Petronella regarded him in astonishment. She hadn't really expected an

answer.

"Dalin Rowan isn't dead."

"He's not, sir?" Petronella was amazed.

"No, at least that's what we suspect. Why? Because the Hung are looking

for him. We know that much from our informant. And Amadi's looking for

Rowan, too."

"But..." Petronella was momentarily speechless, gathering her thoughts.

"But Amadi has a witness, a nurse..."

"Fake. Phony."

"Then why is he having Tampambulos arrested for something he knows he

didn't do?"

"Because Rowan's in hiding. Naturally enough," Robison said dryly. "The

number of people who would like to kill Dalin Rowan would fill a

football stadium. Amadi hasn't been able to find him and neither have

the Hung. He figures this way he'll force Rowan to come out in the

open."

"From what I've read about Xris Tampambulos, he's not that easily

intimidated."

"He won't be. I can guarantee it I knew him in the old days. He was one

of my agents. And Amadi knows Xris as well or better than I do."

"So finding Rowan isn't the only thing Amadi's after?"

"That's what Amadi's going to make it look like. But I don't believe

flushing out Rowan's the reason he's after Xris. Here's the file on

Dalin Rowan."

He passed over a disposable electronic file pad. Petronella activated

it, scanned swiftly through the contents until she reached the end.

"Good grief," she said, gasping.

"Yes." Robison had no need to ask what she'd come across.

"But he's ... she's..."

"Yes," Robison said again. "You see why it was so difficult to locate

him. Her."

"Good grief," Petronella repeated, dazed.

"She's now going by the name of Darlene Mohini. Here are your

instructions...."

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CHAPTER 3

The family--that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite

escape.

Dodie Smith, Dear Octopus

Xris hadn't meant to sit down. He hadn't meant to sit down and he hadn't

intended to remain sitting after that. He hadn't meant to sit here doing

nothing. Doing nothing when he had a hell of lot to do.

"It can wait," he said aloud, startling a seagull that had hopped up

onto the patio in hopes of stale bread.

The bird gave a squawk of irritation, "then settled down on the edge of

the deck, hope springing eternal.

Xris eyed the seagull, which was eyeing him, not the least bit afraid,

confident in the possession of strong wings and an offshore breeze. Xris

knew this gull. It had only one foot, probably a congenital defect. The

lack of a foot didn't bother the gull, although the deformity made its

landings real nose-bumpers, as Harry Luck would say.

Beak-bumpers would be a better term, Xris decided. He had taken to

feeding the one-footed gull, though feeding one meant that twenty more

always showed up and now the deck was covered with gull shit. Marjorie

wouldn't like that, not in the slightest. Xris would clean it up before

he left.

"At least," he told the gull, "they didn't stick you with a metal foot."

He looked down at his own metal foot, propped out in front of him.

The bird didn't seem to appreciate its good fortune. It ruffled its

feathers and turned its head rapidly from side to side, as if as to say,

Cut the chatter, buddy, and bring on the bread. I got things to do, even

if you don't.

Xris had things to do. The house was a mess, for one, but he hadn't had

time to clean. The Mag Force 7 team had been hired for a job, mercenary

work. High pay, with only a moderate amount of risk. He had decided on

the basic plan, but he had to work out details. The rest of the team

would be arriving soon, traveling in from the various parts of the

galaxy they called home, to hear his presentation. It had better be

complete. If Dr. Bill Quong asked a question Xris couldn't answer or if

Jamil caught Xris in a miscalculation, he'd never hear the end of it.

And if Raoul discovered a wet towel on the bathroom floor ... well, Xris

didn't even like to contemplate that eventuality. But it could wait. The

plan. The housekeeping. The grocery order.

It could all wait.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd done nothing. He was always

doing something and he liked it that way. He liked keeping his mind

occupied. When it was thinking about useful things, interesting things,

it didn't have time to brood on things over which he had no control.

Things such as the fact that he couldn't sit and listen to his heart

beat, like most people. He had to listen to his heart hum, like the

fine-tuned machine it was, which then reminded him that most of the rest

of his body needed a lube job and an oil change every fifteen thousand

kilometers.

Xris lounged in a chair on the back deck and watched the sunlight ripple

over the surface of the water. He wouldn't think about his heart or

anything. The ocean was calm today, almost flat, the offshore breeze

smoothing the waves. The teenage surfers stood around in gloomy knots on

the beach, but the younger children were happy, paddling in the gentle

waves that washed up on the shore-- waves that would usually knock them

over when the wind blew in from the sea.

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Three pelicans flew in perfect formation, like a squadron of spaceplanes

on maneuvers. The seagull, a supremely independent bird with a mind of

its own, cast the pelicans a scornful glance. Growing impatient, it

hopped over on its one foot to remind Xris of its presence.

He hadn't brought the bread with him, not having intended to stay out

here in the hot afternoon sunshine. He'd come out on the deck to

rearrange the furniture in preparation for tonight's barbecue. Instead

of lifting a chair, he'd sat down in it.

If he had to put a name to what he was feeling, he'd have to name it

peace. He was at peace, with himself and with the universe. The feeling

of peace was a rare one and he intended to prolong it, luxuriate in it

as much as possible. It wouldn't last.

He was surprised to find himself feeling peaceful here, for by rights he

shouldn't. This place should be painful for him, which was why he'd

first turned down Marjorie's invitation to use her beach house while she

was away. His turn-down had been an automatic, knee-jerk response. He

and Marjorie had once dreamed of owning a house like this on this very

stretch of beach. They used to vacation here, and for fun on rainy days

they'd walk up and down the beach, pick out lots, plan their dream

vacation home.

The dream had ended in a nightmare of flame. The explosion in the

illegal Hung munitions factory had left Xris half metal, half man--and

he was the lucky one. His partner had ended up half bone fragments and

half charred flesh. Marjorie had made the decision to keep Xris alive,

to turn him into a walking soup can. And then the first time he touched

her with his fake hand, she'd flinched. Xris had walked out on her. But

he hadn't divorced her. And she hadn't divorced him. He told himself she

was after his money, for Xris was now a very wealthy man. But he knew

deep inside, somewhere around his plastic heart, that this wasn't the

reason.

She still loved him. This beach house--which was built exactly along the

lines they'd planned--was the proof. He'd turned down the invitation

because he knew it would hurt her. He'd turned it down because he was

afraid it would hurt him. And that was the reason he'd called her back

to accept. It was pretty darn stupid to be scared of a beach house.

This was the ideal place for the Mag Force 7 team to meet to discuss the

new job. The security wasn't as tight as he usually liked it; not as

tight as the Exile Cafe, or his own home on Bear Olefksy's planet

Solgart. But this job didn't require tight security. The team wasn't

doing anything illegal; they weren't planning to assassinate a Navy

officer, for example, or plotting to steal an antique robot. They were

merely going to help overthrow a government.

Xris had accepted Marjorie's invitation and he had expected to be

uncomfortable, hadn't planned on staying long. He now realized he was

going to be sorry to leave. He was already looking forward to coming

back.

Maybe even when Marjorie was home.

Except that, in many ways, she was home. Her presence was everywhere, in

the books in the bookcase, in the sea paintings on the walls, in the

feather pillows that she liked but which always made him sneeze, in the

perfume on her dressing table, in the heavy old ratty bathrobe--the same

bathrobe, he'd swear to it--hanging in the closet. The scent of her bath

oil that clung to it. Ten years and she still used the same fragrance;

something to do with the sea. Xris couldn't ever remember the name. But

he remembered the scent. It brought her back to him in full color,

brought back her smile, her laugh, her voice...

There had been a day when that picture of her would have hurt him,

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angered him, infuriated him. But time heals, time and therapy and the

grudging acknowledgment that maybe Marjorie hadn't reacted to the ugly

metal on the outside as much as she had reacted to the ugliness deep

inside him.

He enjoyed having part of her around. It was rather like entertaining a

friendly ghost.

Maybe, once he got used to this part of her...

The doorbell rang.

The melodious sound drove away the seagull, which flapped off with a

croak expressive of its extreme disappointment.

Xris rose from the chair, his own feelings similar to that of the gull.

He had enjoyed the brief interlude of doing nothing and was sorry to see

it end. Returning to the house, he entered the living room, which faced

the beach. French doors opening onto the patio provided a spectacular

view of the ocean. He left the living room, walked into the front

hallway--picking up a half-read newsvid on his way and depositing it in

the recycler. Reaching the door, he glanced at the vidscreen on the wall

to see who it was before he opened the door.

Xris wasn't particularly worried that a person or persons unknown might

be waiting on the porch to accost him. This was a secure community; the

guards at the front gate would stop anyone who didn't have a pass. But

he was afraid Raoul might have arrived early and Xris had just realized

that he was tracking sand all over the living room rug.

Prepared to swear that he had been interrupted in the act of turning on

the cleaning 'bot, Xris was relieved to see that it wasn't Raoul. A

woman in a rumpled skirt, a plain blouse, and a well-tailored suit

jacket stood smiling into the cam. Her shoulder-length hair had been

brushed at least once today, but no more. She had apparently started to

apply her makeup and had then been interrupted in the process, for she

had penciled in one eyebrow but not the other and she was only wearing

one earring. Glancing at her feet, he saw that both shoes matched, which

meant that she'd actually taken a certain amount of care with her

appearance.

He opened the door. "You were supposed to call me from the spaceport. I

would have picked you up. It's too dangerous--"

"I was fine, Xris." Darlene waved away his concerns. "Not an assassin in

sight. I rented a hover. It's great driving in civilized lands again."

He shook his head, frowned to show he was angry. She grinned to show she

knew he wasn't, and the two shook hands.

"Were you followed on Adonia?" he asked as he ushered her inside the

house, taking her overnight bag from her. He knew better than to offer

to carry her computer case.

"No, but that's not surprising," Darlene said, smiling at him. She shook

her hair out of her eyes to see better and glanced around the house with

approval. "You should try following someone in Adonia. It cannot be

done. The Adonians have no concept of air lanes. They float their hovers

all over the sky, going every which way, mainly because they're not

paying the slightest attention to what they're doing. Either they're

putting on makeup, fixing their hair, changing their clothes, drinking

champagne, admiring the view, entertaining guests, making love, or a

combination of all those. If someone was tailing me, my guess is that he

either died in a midair collision--I've seen some beauts-- or that he

just went quietly insane. Not that anyone would notice that on Adonia."

All of which, thought Xris, is her polite way of telling me that she has

the situation under control, that she would know if she were being

Page 10

Margaret Weis & Don Perrin - Mag Force 7 - Hung Out

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