Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two (16 page)

Washed with the cold shock of recognition, Asan saw each man with odd clarity. Two of them were humans. The third was a Vyarian half-breed who had massacred all the customers in a bar one evening on a wager that he could peel forty skulls in less than ten minutes. He’d won the bet in eight, then eaten the man who challenged him to it.

Asan stared at that face narrowed to a powerful claw at the chin and flared wide above the eyes to a thick mass of bone that protected a treacherous Vyarian brain. He did not have to see the sinew-corded limbs, the spine knobs, the scalp-belt, or the gold-braided hair tassels growing from each elbow to recognize Kor.

The Vyarian had been his last pickpocket victim. Thin, lanky, and starving, one fugitive vat boy who was nimble and quick enough to survive as a crowd thief got cocky one day and dared cut a hair tassel for its gold braid. Kor had turned on him with a bloodcurdling roar, overtaken him before he’d run a dozen steps, and snapped his legs with the ease of a child breaking twigs. That would have been the end of him, just another Vyarian meal in an alley in the back streets of a dingy Institute city, if Udge Enster hadn’t come along and put a stop to it.

“Martok wants a boy,” he’d said calmly, hooking his thumbs in his belt and puffing out his cheeks to spit. “You going to eat the only one we’ve managed to catch, Kor?”

“My meat,” Kor said sullenly. He held up his elbow to show the mutilated hair tassel.

Udge frowned and gave a low whistle. “Either the boy’s addled or he’s got guts for brains.” He stared at BLZ-80-4163, who was crouched on the stone pavement, sick with pain and terror. “The length of that hair means how old a Vyarian is. Whackin’ on that takes away his age, his honor, his strength. You know that?”

“Didn’t want the hair, just the braid,” mumbled BLZ-80-4163 sullenly. He glanced at the Vyarian and shrugged. “No offense.”

Udge threw his head and laughed. It was a bellowing guffaw that shook his whole body. After a moment Kor joined in with something that sounded like a cross between a wheeze and a growl.

“What’s your name, boy?” asked Udge finally, wiping his eyes.

There was no way he would speak that hated number. Right now it was hidden beneath a smear of mud along his jaw. He thought a moment, his wits returning as he realized he was safe from Kor.

“Tobei,” he said at last.

“Right.” Udge clapped him on the shoulder. “You belong somewhere?”

“No.”

“Wrong. You belong to Martok. Pick him up, Kor, and bring him along. If Martok likes him, we can finally blow this dust-ball.”

From that moment on, he’d been one of the free raiders, trained in piloting, weaponry, spying, and identity changes. Until he grew up and branched out on his own. Until he became Blaise Omari, navigator on the SIS
Forerunner
and part-time blackmarketeer. Until he crash-landed on Ruantl, and his life changed totally.

Asan drew an unsteady breath. Where Kor went, Udge wouldn’t be far behind. The coincidence seemed unreal, too good to be true.

For a moment there was silence in the room, then Mike Powers seemed to pull himself together.

“Pirates!” he said with loathing. “You realize the penalty for—”

“Can that,
flin!
” shouted one of the raiders. “Drop the pop and plaster.”

Powers stared at him. “What?”

In a low voice, Asan said, “Put down the strifer and stretch out on the floor.”

Powers glanced at him, frowning, then resolution flickered across his dark face. He swung back to face the raiders, his strifer coming up.

“No!” shouted Asan, jumping to his feet.

But he was too late. The raider had been expecting Powers to try it. The flamethrower belched once, engulfing Powers in a stream of fire that melted down the conference table behind him.

Cursing, Asan threw himself back as fast as he could, seizerting to the far corner of the room. Even then, he felt the scorching nearness of the flames. He materialized almost in a bulkhead, panicked, and slumped to his knees in relief when he came out okay. His heart was beating a frantic rhythm inside his chest. He couldn’t quite catch his breath.

Demos, he’d forgotten how careless free raiders were. Gulping in air, Asan stared at the blackened lump of scrag that had been the table. Powers had been charred beyond any remains. These bloatwits ought to know that flamethrowers were long-range weapons ill-suited for close work like this. One degree less precision and there would have been a hole cut in the side of the ship.

“Found!” said Kor, pointing a black talon in Asan’s direction. His yellow eyes—large, lidless, and reptilian cold—stared into Asan’s. He aimed his flamethrower in Asan’s direction. “Move not.”

Fear gripped Asan. It had nothing to do with the flamethrower. For a moment he was paralyzed, certain that Kor recognized him.

No way
, he told himself.
Don’t be a fool. You’re not even human now. There’s no way you can be recognized
.

Finally Kor glanced away, and Asan gasped in relief. He had always known that if Martok ever released his claim on him, then he would be Kor’s meat once again. Vyarians had memories about fifty times longer than their hair tassels. His arm still carried the scars from those talons…

Demos, no. He must be losing his mind. Asan glanced down at his right arm, so much longer, so much more powerful than the original. The scars he bore now belonged to wars he hadn’t fought. He winced, shying away from it all. He’d better get himself together or he’d be screaming next.

“Deck check complete,” said a voice which, like Kor’s face, still haunted Asan.

Udge Enster—smaller, skinnier, stooped, burnt brown from the tropical sun of Martok’s headquarters, his bony head shaved and oiled so that it glistened in the ship’s lighting—stepped into the conference room and glanced around at death and carnage without so much as a blink. His cheek puffed, and he spat.

“Been wasting fire, Hux?”

Asan closed his eyes as that dry, laconic voice brought back memories he wanted to forget. The raider stammered some answer; Udge always knew who’d fired out of place. The raiders never could figure out how he knew. It kept them scared of him. It kept them in line. Only Kor wasn’t afraid of Udge, but then Kor wasn’t afraid of anything he could eat. Kor and Udge had a different kind of bond, one that had never been explained.

“All GSI humans aboard,” Udge was saying. “Except one little dandy in the brig. She’s—”

“Female?” rumbled Kor, his head coming up. The chin claw—so handy for slashing throats—quivered a little. Kor was endlessly fascinated by females of all species.

“None of that now,” said Udge sharply. “We’re on a job, and we stay on that job until Omari is located.”

Worried, Asan rose to his feet. They had come out this far tracing him. Martok was notorious for never letting anyone double-cross him. But they were looking for someone who was impossible to find. Asan was safe…at least, he was providing they didn’t decide he was flotsam and kill him.

Udge glanced at him and blinked in a double-take, his eyes lifting up and up to meet Asan’s. They stared at each other a long while. Asan’s self-confidence began to return. For the first time in his life he wasn’t under Udge’s thumb, taking orders, taking
flin
. Udge’s eyes were like glass, opaque with surprise.

Asan decided to grab his advantage and put on full Tlar pomposity.

“Choi’heirat. Za,”
he said, turning up his palm. “I am Asan, Tlar leiil of the people of Ruantl. It was of need that my captors’ blood be spread upon the sand. You have my thanks.”

He waited, appearing calm and noble, while Udge looked him over. He saw Udge take notice of the ring of black carbyx. He could almost see Udge estimating its value.

Udge shoved his strifer into its holster and put his left hand in a capacious side-pocket of his stained brown vest. It had at least a dozen other pockets, all of various sizes, most of them bulging until the fastenings strained. He stepped forward until he was only two arm’s lengths from Asan and cocked his bald head to one side.

“You a GSI prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your crime?”

“Wealth.”

Interest flickered in the opaque eyes. “That little dandy in the brig belong to you?”

Asan hesitated a moment, thinking of how much Zaula hated him. “Yes.”

Udge grinned. His teeth were small, stained, and pointed. “How much wealth?”

Asan removed his ring and tossed it to Udge. “It is a common stone,” he said, putting indifference in his voice. “Normally I would be arrayed in better attire, but I have been in the TANK.” He lifted his palm. “You may have the ring if it pleases you.”

Udge turned pale under his tan. He held his palm flat with the ring centered on it. The other men were silent, hushed with awe in the presence of something as priceless as carbyx.

If only I still had my corybdium jen-knife to wave around
, thought Asan with regret.

The black stone drank in the light, reflecting nothing in its polished surface. Martok was one of the richest persons alive, and to Asan’s knowledge he possessed only three small carbyx stones. Those were protected in their own special vault. Certainly he would never toss one to his men as a gift.

The struggle was plain in Udge’s face. But at last he tossed it back to Asan, who caught it in relief that the bluff had worked.

“We are not permitted to take bribes,” Udge said coldly.

Asan lifted his brows. “You are wealthy raiders.”

Someone laughed bitterly. Udge snapped his head around, and the laughter stopped.

“Hux, you and Beanie report back to Wyton. Clean out this ship and get her ready to tow.”

The two humans shouldered their flamethrowers and shuffled out. Kor began wandering around the room. Asan watched his seemingly aimless progress warily.

“We’re looking for a fellow named Blaise Omari,” said Udge.

Asan did not have to pretend his weariness. “That name again. Are all humans on the trail of this
n’ka
?”

“You know him?”

“He is dead.”

“Is he now? That’s too bad.” Udge exchanged a glance with Kor. “My boss ain’t gonna like that. He was sort of wantin’ to kill Omari himself.”

Asan shrugged. “His blood was spread upon the sands long ago…before season. Ruantl is a harsh world. Few live long.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Omari had quite a knack for wrigglin’ out of tough spots.” Udge scratched his chin. “I can think of several times when I thought sure he was a goner, but, nope, out he’d come again. You say he’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“You see him die?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Udge frowned. His cheeks puffed, and he spat. Then he drew out his left hand from his pocket where it had been all this time. He was holding a small meter that blinked a tiny yellow light.

“Funny you should say that, Tobei. You see, a long, long time ago I put a thwart in you so that if you ever did decide to run out on us, we’d have a way of finding you.”

Coldness sank through Asan. He stiffened, his gaze locked on the meter. Disbelief and despair warred inside him. It was impossible. He’d have known if there was a thwart inside his subconscious. Maybe not before when he was human, but surely the rings of life would have told him…

“I’m impressed, Tobei.” Udge went on. “I really am. Not only have you grown about three feet and changed color, you’re even rich now. That’s very good. No one else I’ve trained has ever pulled something like this off.”

Desperately Asan shook off his numbness. Trying to ignore Kor, who had circled around behind him and was now breathing down his neck, Asan said, “You are mistaken. I am Asan, Tlar leiil of—”

“Tobei, Tobei, don’t play games with us.” Udge shook his head reprovingly. “We’re family, remember? At least we were until you did us dirty. Martok’s sore. But you know that. That’s why you’re hiding. That’s why you’re trying to lie to me.”

Kor rumbled deep in his throat. His talons grasped Asan’s shoulder and gave him a shake.

“I knew Blaise,” said Asan. “But I am not he. That meter is wrong. It’s reading certain memory patterns picked up during transference—”

“Transference,” said Udge. “That’s an interesting word. Martok will like it.”

“I was in preservation,” said Asan, beginning to sweat. “Blaise was the catalyst required to resurrect me. His life force was used to reactivate my own. He died in the process. Look at me! I am no puny human with striped eyes! I am Tlartantlan.”

“It’s a good trick, but a thwart is designed for tricks like yours. A thwart doesn’t lie.”

Asan swung around, aiming for Kor’s eyes. His blow missed, however, and Kor clamped a hand unerringly on Asan’s broken wrist. The pain barrier broke, and a flash of heat followed by icy chills went through Asan. He screamed, going down on one knee as Kor ground the shattered bones together. Asan’s rings snapped out desperately. Kor staggered back from the blow, but he did not fall. Growling, he shook his wedge-shaped head as though to clear it and aimed the flamethrower.

“Kor, no!” shouted Udge, and stepped between Asan and Kor with his strifer aimed right between Asan’s eyes. “He is Martok’s meat. Get him confined. Now.”

Kor hesitated as though he would argue, but finally he came forward with the flamethrower at rest against his shoulder. He grabbed Asan’s wrist again, but more gently this time.

Still, Asan closed his eyes against a wave of despised weakness that kept him from making another try to escape. He’d be smarter, and healthier, to wait until he got back to Martok. He still had Ruantl to offer on a deal; only now, instead of bargaining for mutual gain, he’d be bargaining for his life.

Kor paused outside the door to the brig and glanced slyly at Asan, who was trying hard to ignore the iron grip on his injured wrist. Asan frowned back. It was physically impossible for Vyarians to mate with any other species, but just the same Kor’s sexual scents were repulsive. And Asan didn’t like the idea of Kor even thinking about Zaula.

“She’s probably pulp on the floor,” he said. “You skyflies banged this ship around pretty hard.”

Kor grunted. “Still in one piece.”