Authors: Margaret Weis
The computer
took down her words, its circuits nearly overloading at the temerity
of the plan.
"At least
..." Maigrey reflected, picking up the towel after the Jump was
completed and stuffing it into a storage bin where XJ couldn't see
it. "At least Dion is safe and well out of this."
The knowledge
didn't do much to ease her conscience, but it helped.
But the men of
Sodom were wicked and sinners before the Lord exceedingly.
Genesis 13:13
Laskar was a
planet with only one continent. That continent had on it only one
state and that state only one city. Located on the fringes of the
galaxy, the planet had little else to recommend it. It was, depending
on where you were, either hot and too humid, or hot and too dry. Most
appalling, some type of chemical present in the atmosphere caused
Laskar's sun to appear to be green in color—not a brilliant,
emerald green, but more of a chartreuse. The green sun bathed the
planet in a pale green light that gave every object the appearance of
slow decay. Humans, in particular, found the sight nauseating. But
then most humans who visited the planet rarely saw the sun.
Laskar had one
thing in its favor—its distance from everything else in the
galaxy. It had been originally a military outpost; a town of sorts
had grown up around the base. Far from civilization, the town was far
from civilization's laws, but it was extremely close to soldiers who
had lots of money and no place to spend it. Enterprising business
people, of the type who prefer that no one investigate their dealings
too closely, moved in to Laskar, set up house, opened up shop, and
began operations.
Pleasure—or
the quest for it—became the planet's foremost source of
revenue. Anyone or anything could be had at almost any price.
Prostitution, gambling, drugs—no one on Laskar ran a
"legitimate" business. Grocery stores sold more
paraphernalia and prophylactics than they did food and what you could
buy in the frozen meat department was a tribute to human and alien
ingenuity. Assassins for hire advertised openly. The Thieves Guild
was a thriving concern, operating an eye bank as a charitable
sideline. Needless to say, chamber of commerce meetings on Laskar
tended to be lively affairs.
The planet was a
mecca for those who had nothing and therefore nothing to lose, those
who had everything and were bored, and those—like Snaga
Ohme—who simply wanted to pursue private pursuits in private.
Once, shortly after the revolution, certain zealous members of
Congress had launched a campaign to clean up Laskar. An alarming drop
in government revenue followed. The matter was promptly referred to
committee and that was the end of it. Laskar paid well to be left
alone.
Brigadier
General Vilhelm Haupt, commander of the Galactic Republic Democratic
Armed Forces stationed at Fort Laskar, gazed out the window of his
office, morosely contemplating the green sunset. He detested this
planet. A stern, moral man, Haupt hated the assignment that had
brought him here, though he knew very well (and prided himself on the
fact) that it was his own virtues which had won him the position.
The commander of
this post must be incorruptible, must have no vices, be subject to no
temptation. Haupt's military record was above reproach and, morally
speaking, he was the most boring man in the entire universe. When the
last commander on Laskar had gone AWOL to open her own brothel, Haupt
had been the unanimous choice of his superiors to replace her.
The sun spread
its nauseating glow across the sky— chartreuse deepening to
puce, giving the clouds the colorful effect of a gangrenous wound.
Haupt grimaced, wondering if any human ever truly grew accustomed to
the sight. Irritably, he snapped the window blinds shut, went back to
his desk. Fortunately night was coming soon. Although night brought
its own problems.
He sat down to
file his report. Another soldier was missing, had not reported back
to base.
Fort Laskar had
one of the highest desertion rates in the army. Most of the city was
off-limits to military personnel, but that only had the effect of
making it more glamorous. Bars that weren't restricted actually put
up signs announcing that they were in hopes of increasing business.
The brigadier
recited the facts of the case of the AWOL soldier to the computer in
a tone of complete and utter contempt. Undoubtedly the cops would
find the man's body in an alley, throat slashed, money stolen. And
for what? Haupt snorted and made a mental note to have the man's
description given to the Laskar police, along with the requisite
bribe money to encourage them to look for him.
"Brigadier—"
His aide entered.
"Ah, yes,
glad you came in, Corporal. Make a note to show that vid to all
personnel again, will you? The one about the dangers of entering
restricted zones."
The corporal
made a face. "Yes, sir. Brigadier, we've received a report that
a long-range Scimitar has been sighted entering our orbit and has
requested permission to land."
Haupt raised his
eyebrows so far that they appeared ready to slide up and over the
crown of his bald head. "A single long-range Scimitar? Alone?"
"It appears
to be, sir."
"Not part
of a fleet?"
"The fleet
is not reported to be in the area, sir."
"How very
strange." Haupt's eyebrows dropped down into a frown above the
pinched nose. The brigadier didn't like anything strange. He glanced
up, a glimmer of hope. "Perhaps it's in trouble?"
"I don't
believe so, sir. It has put out no distress call."
"Who's
aboard?"
"A Major
Penthesilea, sir."
"Penthesilea.
Never heard of him. "
The corporal
spoke reluctantly, unable to withhold the bad news any longer.
"She
says she is a special courier from Citizen General Sagan, sir."
"Good God!"
Haupt stared.
"Yes, sir,"
the aide agreed.
"I suppose
I should be on hand to meet her," Haupt said, rising and casting
a nervous glance in a mirror. Reassuring himself on the immaculate
state of his uniform, he twitched his coat down, adjusted the stiff,
high collar.
"Yes, sir.
Should I turn out the band, sir?"
Haupt
considered. "No, let's keep this low profile." The citizen
general might be the darling of the media; however— from the
scuttlebutt Haupt had picked up from HQ—Sagan was out of favor
in higher places. Haupt didn't dare do anything to offend this
powerful Warlord, but he didn't have to welcome Sagan's courier with
fifes and drums, either.
The brigadier
paused on his way out of his office. "You have,
I presume,
verified this with Citizen General Sagan, haven't you, Corporal?"
"We're
trying, sir, but we're having difficulty reaching anyone who knows
anything about the situation. We keep getting passed to someone
higher up—"
Haupt snorted.
He disliked excuses. The corporal, aware of this, fell silent.
"Keep
trying," the brigadier ordered and stalked off.
On the way to
the landing area, Haupt tried to figure out why he was being honored
with this visit. It boded nothing good, he decided. He knew perfectly
well—everyone in the galaxy knew—that Citizen General
Sagan never employed women on any business whatsoever, never
permitted them to serve aboard his ship. To have broken that rule, to
have made a woman a major and a special courier— Well! She must
be some woman, the brigadier thought gloomily, and wondered what her
speciality was—knives, poisons, perhaps explosives . . .
Arriving at the
landing site, the brigadier discovered that the Scimitar had already
touched down and that half the base had turned out to view the female
who represented the Warlord. Most had probably heard word of her
coming long before their commander, Haupt realized bitterly. Rumors
spread like head lice on this base. Everyone from cooks to clerks to
captains was standing around, gawking at the plane, commenting on the
fact that it looked to have been in recent combat: gun turret
wrecked, shields damaged, hull scorched.
So much for low
profile.
"'Tention!"
called out someone, spying the brigadier.
Everyone snapped
to, trying to look as if they belonged here.
"You
people, go about your business! Sergeant, disperse this crowd!"
A figure was
climbing out of the battered Scimitar. Haupt hurried forward, placed
himself at the bottom of the ladder. He had been attempting to
picture the type of woman Derek Sagan might employ and was prepared
for anything from a female gorilla to an Amazon with one breast
missing. The slender female clad in a neat Galactic Air Corps flight
suit came as somewhat of a surprise and a relief to him. Perhaps
there'd been a mistake, his commlink operators had misunderstood. The
woman appeared perfectly ordinary, he thought, watching her descend
the ladder with practiced ease and skill. Arriving on the ground, she
turned to face him.
Brigadier Haupt
looked into her eyes, took the shock in the pit of his stomach. He'd
served on an arctic planet once, a vast, frozen wasteland. The eyes
reminded him strongly of that bleak planet—empty, cold. So
chilled was he by the eyes that it was some moments before he noticed
the dreadful scar that slashed the right side of her face.
His heart sank.
Apparently no mistake had been made.
"Brigadier
General— What was the name?" the woman asked.
"Haupt,"
he said, and involuntarily started to salute, then realized that
generals did not salute majors. Generals especially did not salute
majors who had not saluted them first. This major had not saluted him
and obviously had no intention of so doing.
Haupt was
extremely angry. Warlord or no Warlord behind her, this officer was
bound by the same rules of military conduct as all the rest of them.
Rules that had been cherished through centuries, rules that
propagated respect for a superior. The brigadier would have upbraided
the woman on this, would have issued a verbal reprimand, but he found
himself faltering and strangely tongue-tied in the grave, intense
gaze of the woman's gray eyes.
"I am Major
Penthesilea," the woman said suddenly, and held out her right
hand. "How do you do?"
Haupt was
completely nonplussed. He stared at the slender, taper-fingered hand
whose nails were trimmed short like a man's. He had the oddest
sensation that he was expected to kiss the smooth, white skin, as he
would have been expected to in the old, prerevolution days. And then
the woman turned the hand over. Haupt saw the five marks on the palm
and every ounce of fluid in his body seemed to drain from it.
Only three more
years to retirement, a pension! Good God, had it been too much to
ask? Haupt lifted his bulging-eyed gaze from the palm and stared
forlornly at the woman.
"My-—my
lady—" he began, but she shook her head swiftly, slightly.
Apparently, this was to be their little secret. Haupt felt sick.
"M-major," he said loudly, and was rewarded with a smile
that was pale as a winter sun. "Welcome . . . welcome to
Laskar." He had no idea what he was saying.
"Thank you,
sir." She took his limp and unresisting hand and shook it
firmly.
Haupt had
touched warmer corpses and disengaged himself from her grip as
quickly as possible. "I—I have quarters prepared for you.
If you would come this way—"
"Thank you
again, sir, but I intend to remain aboard my spaceplane during my
stay here. Security reasons. I'm certain you understand."
He didn't, but
that was of no consequence. Whoever this ghost was who had risen out
of the past where the Blood Royal (with the exception of Derek Sagan)
were supposed to be dead and buried, she could live in a coffin if
she chose to do so. At least until Haupt figured out what was going
on.
"Yes, my .
. . Major."
"Is there
somewhere we can speak in private?" she asked.
"My
office," Haupt said faintly.
The woman
nodded,- and the two walked back across the compound toward the base.
En route, Haupt was pleased to note his people going about their
duties, although there certainly seemed to be an unusually high
number of personnel involved in duties around the landing zone this
evening. He saw that the major returned the salutes accorded the two
officers, but he also noted that she used the Warlord's salute—
fist over heart—rather than the regulation hand to hat brim.
It was an
extraordinarily hot night on Laskar, Haupt thought, feeling sweat
trickle down the back of his uniform. He could envision the large,
unsightly spot it must be making. A glance showed him that the woman,
clad in the bulky flight suit, appeared cool, completely unaffected.
"Would you
care for a drink first, Major? The officers' club—"
The woman shook
her head. "The matter is one of extreme urgency, sir."
"I am at
your comman—" Haupt paused. A brigadier was never at a
major's command. He saw the half-smile on the curved lips increase
slightly, saw it touch and twist the scar on the right side of the
face.
Who in the name
of God ... or the devil . . . was she?
The major said
nothing more to him. Haupt noted her eyes taking in every detail of
the base as they walked, much—it occurred to him—like one
who is on reconnaissance in enemy territory. The brigadier kept
silent, thinking back to the days before the revolution, trying to
figure out who this woman was.
Penthesilea—an
alias, of course. The brigadier had a smat-tering of literary
background. He was fond of reading. It was—outside of a glass
of sherry before bed—his only form of relaxation. He realized
why the name Penthesilea had conjured up visions of Amazons in his
mind. Penthesilea had been an Amazon queen who had fought at the
battle of Troy and who, according to legend, was loved by Achilles.