The Legacy of Lehr (22 page)

“Well, it isn't exactly standard issue on a civilian ship,” Shannon muttered. “I don't see
your
men performing any miracles just now.”

Mather gave her a tiny, bitter smile. “I'm sure they're doing their best,” he conceded. “I just don't know how much time we've got. Wallis is still alive—I know that much—and I'm pretty sure the others are, too. But how long that will continue to be true, I couldn't begin to guess. I wouldn't want to rush Reynal into anything rash, but I don't think we dare delay very long.”

Inside, meanwhile, Reynal and Wing had not been idle. The room was already strewn with tufts of blue Lehr cat fur.

“We shall try to make them think the cats have been here,” Reynal was saying as he gathered up more of the scattered ampules, power packs, and needler charges in a satchel and checked the settings on both his hyposprays. He had also produced a highly illegal miniature stun pistol from a hiding place in the closet and stuck this in his waistband as he approached Wing. “The evidence still points to the cats, even though no one understands how that could be possible. All that is really necessary to keep us in the clear is a reasonable doubt.”

Wing, who had dragged the half-conscious captain to a sitting position against the foot of the bed, drew back as Reynal knelt and briefly laid his bare hand against the captain's throat again, his shields giving Lutobo another stunning jolt. Lutobo was still twitching as Reynal withdrew and turned the shields off; and Wing braced him as he sagged more heavily against the end of the bed, breathing a little erratically.

“Isn't it a little late to still be blaming the cats?” Wing asked. “Commodore Seton knows your blood type, and he's already connected that with the earlier deaths. Besides that, he needled them just before I left. He'll know they couldn't have come here.”

“He knows
nothing
of the true powers of the Shining Ones,” Reynal said, snapping off the top of a Reparinol ampule and handing it to Wing with a fanatic fervor in his eyes. “Drink that now. It will help you to assimilate the blood.”

As Wing obeyed, grimacing as he sucked the ampule dry and pocketed the empty, Reynal went on.

“Good. Now breathe deeply to calm yourself while I tell you what must be done afterward, for I still must perform the culminating sacrifice, once we have finished with the captain. When all is completed, we must make it look as if the cats have been here on a rampage, with only the two of us surviving. We shall destroy the evidence of our true handiwork. And afterward, when all is in confusion, we shall escape in a shuttle ship. The fools will never understand the full truth. Hold him, now. I will prepare him for you, but he is yours. Even stunned, he will try to fight at first.”

Wing's face showed no emotion as he locked down on both Lutobo's wrists. “
Seton
is no fool,” he muttered.

With a derisive laugh, Reynal hooked a claw in the closure of Lutobo's tunic neck and ripped it open, forcing the proud neck back against the edge of the bed with his right hand while his left closed around the throat, a steel-gleaming, razor-tipped forefinger poised over the right jugular vein, just below the pulsepoint.

“Seton
is
a fool,
tsortse
,” he murmured, staring into Wing's eyes, “but you are none. And you shall join the numbers of the blessed. Taste of the sacrifice now, and become one with the gods!”

Wing flinched as Reynal opened their victim's jugular with a deft flick of one claw, and Wallis felt her stomach clench at Lutobo's faint, strangled whimper of terror as his eyes opened wide and startled and he dimly sensed what was happening. The captain tried to struggle as his first blood sprayed all over the front of Wing's uniform in crimson baptism, but he was no match for either of his captors, especially with strength and reflexes still sapped by Reynal's shields. Lifting the bloodied claw-hand in horrible benediction, Reynal murmured something in a language Wallis did not recognize and was answered by Wing—who did not even blink as Lutobo's blood continued to soak him.

Wallis did not want to watch as Reynal's clawhand pressed Wing's head against that pulsing source to drink, but she could not look away—any more than she could look away as Reynal bent to sink his teeth into the other jugular—though she did close her eyes, especially when Lutobo began to moan and his limbs began to twitch feebly.

Hours seemed to pass, though she knew, by counting her own heartbeat, that it had been only minutes. She opened her eyes again when she suddenly heard a faint choking sound and saw Wing and then Reynal drawing back from their victim. At first she thought that they had killed Lutobo outright, but then she saw his chest move—though, with blood continuing to stream steadily down both sides of his neck, she knew he could not last long. Wing coughed, pressing a bloody fist to his lips and doubling over briefly, then drew a deep breath and straightened on his knees to look at Reynal in awe, blood now smearing his face as well as his green Ranger coverall. Reynal, more fastidious in his supping, was only red around the mouth, though his golden eyes seemed to glow red as well as he glanced in Wallis's direction.

“Well done,
tsortse
,” he whispered to Wing, though he did not take his eyes from Wallis as he handed Wing one of the hyposprays. “Use this now, and try to hold the offering. I must set the stage for the others, before the culmination.”

Wallis made herself breathe deeply, observing in numb fascination as Reynal rose and began upsetting furniture, slashing the upholstery and carpet with his clawed glove, and scattering more tufts of the loose blue Lehr cat fur around the room. She failed to notice whether Wing had dosed himself again as ordered, but soon he, too, was contributing to the chaos, dabbing the Lehr cat paw in a runnel of blood still seeping from the wounds on Lutobo's neck and making terrible, bloody footprints in Lutobo's vicinity.

Wallis felt a curious detachment as she watched all of this—knowing that her fate was likely to be the same as Lutobo's, dreading the moment when Reynal should finish his preparations and approach her. She wondered desperately where Mather was; whether Shannon had believed Reynal's glib denial of Lutobo's and her presence; whether she really was about to die.

Then Reynal suddenly was standing over her again. In her panic, she could not recall his having moved; he simply was
there
, his terrible golden eyes holding her from any physical resistance.

“Tell me, Doctor, does your great learning give you any comfort now?” he asked, gently lifting a loose strand of her hair and caressing its texture between his thumb and fingers. “Can all your scientific training and erudition save you from the glory that awaits you in these final moments?”

Wallis fought to swallow, her throat suddenly gone dry, and tried to speak, but no words would come out. The dart drug still working in her body kept her balanced just on the edge of lethargic indifference, and the further abuse her system had taken from his shields ensured that no physical resistance was going to be possible. She hoped Reynal would at least tell her why she had to die this way. And what would it be like?

“It will be an easy death, Doctor,” Reynal whispered, almost as if he had read her thoughts—though she was fairly certain he had not. “In ancient times, before the Earthers came to Il Nuadi, the Old Ones walked the ways of the gods. The Shining Ones, whom you stupidly call Lehr cats, were the divine messengers of those gods—lesser gods, themselves—and the priests of the Old Ones took blood sacrifice for
them
, that
they
might carry the people's petitions heavenward.

“But the Earthers brought disease and a destruction of the old ways,” he went on, his eyes hardening. “Their dying had only begun when the Earthers' wars cut off Il Nuadi from further contamination, but that start was enough. Soon all the Old Ones were gone; and for centuries, the gods received no sacrifices.

“But half a century ago, our wise men learned to emulate the ancient examples, Doctor. Joyously we revived the ancient sacrifices, that we might make atonement for what was done to the Old Ones and once more send the people's petitions to Them. And when one of the Shining Ones is taken from Il Nuadi, or is killed, sacrifice must be made. The drug Reparanol was the key; for with it, we can assimilate the blood of the sacrifice even as the Old Ones did. Now, once again may the sacrifice experience that awesome, awe-full ecstasy of union with the gods, as he or she sinks into blessed oblivion.”

He leaned closer to her, his hands resting on the chair arms to either side of her, and stared into her eyes. The stench of blood was on his breath.

“It is a sweet pain, Doctor Hamilton. Do not resist it. Your life shall be sealed to the gods. Accept this and rejoice.”

And she
must
accept. She could not pull away or struggle. As he drew her up into his embrace, murmuring words of alien ritual that she did not understand, she closed her eyes and felt his steel-tipped fingers tilt her head to one side, his other hand slipping behind her back to support her neck and head.

Then she was aware of his lips brushing moistly over her throat, the hot shock of his tongue probing for the pulse point. She braced herself for his teeth but instead felt the subtler sting of one of his claws nicking the vein, just before his lips clamped down in a kiss of death.

She had not expected it to be so painless. She was able to count a full minute by her heartbeat before she felt consciousness begin to wane from loss of blood. Soon she would pass out, never knowing her own ending.

But further impressions of the experience were never to come. For just as empty despair began to overpower her, an explosion jarred the room, the sound filtering hollowly through her dazed senses, and Reynal was pulling away from her and leaping to his feet.

As the door disappeared in a flash of hot air and smoke, Rangers and security men suddenly began pouring into the room, their needlers sparking. But the darts flashed harmlessly around Reynal, for he had reactivated his shielding device at the first sign of trouble. Even stun bolts had no effect. Charred bits of plastic and surgisteel rained around him like hail, and the stun pistol he drew immediately began to take its toll of the men pouring into the room.

And Wing's assistance was of an even more insidious sort. Pretending to be one of Reynal's victims—which was not difficult, given his bloodstained appearance—he had thrown himself on the floor when the guards began bursting through the door. From this position of feigned unconsciousness, he fired his needler from underneath his body whenever an opportunity presented itself, thus incapacitating at least three guards or Rangers whom Reynal's stunner had missed.

When Mather burst in at the tail of the attack, his needler sparking while he seemed to be evading every stun shot that Reynal tried, Wing broke his cover. Raising up on one elbow, he fired point-blank as Mather started to push past him to reach Wallis. He got off at least two more shots before Mather could deal with him.

But Mather was fast, despite his bulk. Seeing Wing's movement out of the corner of his eye, he dropped to the floor, rolled, and returned fire in one smooth movement. Nor did the gyrations mar his aim. Even as Wing was trying to squeeze off a fourth shot, he took five of Mather's darts in the chest in a close-grouped pattern that would have made any range master proud.

But at least one of Wing's darts had found its mark, too, and Mather could not ignore its effects for long. Cursing under his breath, he managed to roll onto his side and catch another glimpse of Wallis, sprawled limp and bloody in the chair where Reynal had left her.

But the drug dragged at his limbs, and his needler slipped from increasingly numb fingers. He could not seem to keep his eyes open. He felt the velvet crush of unconsciousness pressing closer and closer as his eyelids closed, but he fought to maintain at least a shred of awareness.

Across the room, as silence descended, Reynal began to laugh.

CHAPTER 12

The laughter saved Mather.

The sound was something he could hold onto—an anchor on consciousness, a beacon to help keep the growing twilight at bay. He wondered why he was still conscious at all, for he knew he had taken at least two of Wing's darts. In a supreme effort of will, he managed to open his eyes slightly and make a quick evaluation of what he could see without moving.

The prospect was not encouraging. Of the six security guards and three Rangers he had sent in after the door was blown, he could see two of his own men sunk in drugged slumber with Wing's darts in them and three more men twitching in after-reaction from Reynal's stunner. The sudden silence, as Reynal stopped laughing, suggested that everyone else was similarly incapacitated.

Nor was his own situation exactly encouraging. He had ended up on his right side, with his knees partially drawn against his chest in a fetal position and his right arm fully extended to the side, the useless needler still grasped loosely in his numb right hand. His left arm was curled close to his chest, one of Wing's darts just visible beneath the hand cupped near his heart, and a cautious further inspection suggested at least a partial reason he was still awake. Another dart was stuck in his left shoulder at an angle that made him suspect it had hit the needler harness under his jacket. That, plus the low dose of the darts the Rangers carried, plus his sheer bulk, must be what had saved him.

But he was not safe yet. As Reynal suddenly started to move, passing among the motionless bodies to disarm them, Mather closed his eyes, praying that Reynal had not noticed the movement—for he was as good as dead, if Reynal thought he was still conscious, and he might never get the chance to implement his plan.

He heard Reynal coming closer, but with the anchor of vision gone, he started to drift again. He managed not to slip away entirely, but it took all his remaining concentration. And he did drift a little; suddenly he was aware that someone was standing over him.