"As much as I'd like to stay; I can't. Someone awaits me at the Depot."
Drandon nodded gravely. "Come inside," he urged. "At second sunrise the temperature will become unbearable."
They walked toward a sprawling one-level abode built with natural-rock walls and surrounded by shaded courtyards and a wide, wraparound porch—a typical design in tropical climates.
Drandon led him onto the veranda. It overlooked a vast plantation of young Nandan silk trees. Rom admired the view, evidence of Drandon's years of hard work, while a young female servant poured juice into two iced glasses, then left, her slippered feet silent on the flagstone floor. Rom followed Drandon's lead and settled onto one of the wickedly inviting cushions made from Nandan silk. The planet's second sun, a tiny, white-hot orb, peeked above the horizon.
"Over the next hour the temperature will climb twenty degrees," Drandon said. He lifted the lid of one of two ornately carved wooden boxes and handed Rom a dried leaf rolled tightly around what was surely top-grade to-
bacco. "When it does, we will lower the molecular heat barrier. The humidity here is formidable."
"As bad as on Nanda?" Rom asked as Drandon lit his cigar.
"Worse. Of course, Jhiara loves it, being Nandan."
"And you?"
"Actually, I detest it"—cigar clamped between his teeth, Drandon laced his hands behind his head—"less and less each day."
Rom chuckled. He understood as only another trader could. Success was a thing to be proud of. "Like your wife, the trees love the climate, which is driving your change of heart."
"They grow twice as fast and produce four times as much as those on Nanda." The man's eyes shone. "My grandchildren will live to see this plantation eclipse the production of that entire planet." Suddenly pensive, he shifted his gaze to the rows of lush green trees on the hillsides below. "Or will they?" he asked quietly.
Rom shifted uncomfortably. "Perhaps I can tell you more after I examine that medallion."
With a resigned expression on his face, his friend lifted the lid of the second box, withdrew a lumpy drawstring pouch, and handed it to Rom. "Whether or not the eight families decide to back you, I will. Rest assured, I will fight—"
"I am not here to recruit anyone," Rom said stiffly. "Nor to investigate the possibility of another war. I came for personal reasons. The galaxy is no longer my responsibility."
"Somehow I find it hard to believe you believe that." Rom let Drandon's remark brush past him. All his life he'd shouldered the expectations of others. No more. He was not the B'kah. He was a simple trader with his own interests at heart. He wouldn't pretend to buoy Dran-don's hopes. He might be a hero in Jasmine's eyes, but he didn't care to raise anyone else's expectations simply to end up dashing them.
"I'm here because of my own selfish interests," Rom said briskly. "I don't represent the eight families, or wish to. And the
Vash Nadah
are mired in complacency, so don't look to them for help, either, should the Dark Years come upon us again. Continue to arm yourself and your family. Do whatever you need to keep your own interests safe. Better yet, search out a compatible planet and move there, as far away from the populated regions as you can."
Drandon regarded him skeptically. "Run?"
"It is what
I
plan to do. There is a woman—I care about her a great deal. If your discovery proves to be the shadow of a larger threat, I intend to take her and her family to where they'll be safe." Tamping down on unwanted emotion, Rom untied the drawstring and emptied the purse's contents into his palm. "The Family of the New Day used a depiction of clasped hands below a rising sun. This shows the hands below a nebula, or perhaps a plasma cloud or black hole."
His friend's relief was palpable. "So my picker was nothing more than some fanatic with an interesting bauble?"
"Perhaps." Rom nipped over the medallion. "I suspect he belongs to a group that wants to reclaim the Family of the New Day's former glory. The design is very similar." Rom paused. "Unfortunately, if the
Vash Nadah's
hold on the Trade Federation continues to deteriorate, I
fear we will see more and more individuals like your picker."
He pressed the engraved golden disk between his palms, and a faint tingling sensation crept up his wrists. Startled, he released it. The discovery dismayed him. "This is cast from an empathic alloy, like the original medallions."
"These alloys were banned after the Great War," Drandon pointed out.
"They were." Rom kept all expression from his face as horrific memories threatened to overtake him. "But Shan-on had a knack for reengineering banned technologies. This indicates that not all of what he worked toward died with him."
Drandon gestured to the necklace with his cigar. "Isn't it true that empathic alloys were once used to alter brain function?"
Rom nodded.
"So if I were to wear that medallion, someone could make me do their bidding?"
"They might
influence
your behavior," Rom answered. "But they could not control it. Sharron came the closest of all. He possessed some psychic ability—a twisted sense of empathy, you might say—and he used the medallion to enhance this ability. During the war, when we experimented in a similar way with confiscated medallions, we were able to relay suggestions to our subjects' neurons. But actual mind control was never achieved."
Drandon narrowed his eyes. "What
was
achieved?"
"We found that most could deflect the hints we sent, unless they were weakened from sickness or exhaustion. Animals were another matter entirely." Rom slid the medallion near where a Centaurian morning-fly was exploring the base of his glass. It hopped onto the medallion. Then, without warning, the insect rose sharply and slammed itself into the wall.
Stunned, the ex-smuggler contemplated the glittering splotch of moisture left on the stones. "Great Mother," Drandon muttered. "That was quite a graphic demonstration."
"Lesser creatures do not possess the strength of will we do."
"In that, I hope you're right. Just as I pray Sharron took the knowledge of the rest of the banned technology to his grave."
"I suspect he did. From what my men found on his base, it appears he trusted few with his secrets. Only the elders of his sect even knew of the cloning, or far worse, his plans to resurrect antimatter weaponry."
"Antimatter weaponry!" Drandon was uncharacteristically shaken. "During the Great War, the warlords used the like to obliterate entire planetary systems."
"Sharron aspired to wipe out far more than mere systems, Drandon. Had we not stopped him, had we listened to the eight families and dismissed him as a harmless fanatic, he might have followed through with his goal. He wanted to detonate an immense antimatter explosion in the galaxy's core, triggering, he hoped, its collapse. Whether or not that's scientifically possible is debatable, but his group is a doomsday cult on a grand scale. Sharron believed we'd all be reborn into a 'New Day.' "
"With him as God, no doubt," Drandon remarked dryly.
"I must go," Rom said, rising to his feet. Although Jas was safe within Muffin's vigilant protection, in light
of what he'd learned today, he wouldn't rest until he was back by her side.
* * *
Jas leaned against Beela. Her legs trembled with the adrenaline still pumping through her veins. "I... I thought that man was hurt."
Beela sniffed. "I suppose you weren't the first traveler to think so. And you certainly won't be the last." Her two companions, a man and a young woman, collected Jas's scattered belongings and returned them to her muddy purse. Meekly, they handed it to her.
Jas grasped the strap gratefully. "Thank you. Thanks, all of you."
"We were on our way home when we heard your cries," Beela said, gathering her cloak around her. She took Jas by the arm. "It's not wise to be alone after such trauma. Come back to the compound with us. We'll share a light meal and some lalla-blossom tea."
"I don't want to impose," Jas protested weakly.
Beela gave a motherly frown. "You are
not
an imposition. Spend this evening among friends."
"I have to be at the terminal in a few hours. Is it far?"
"In the mountains. But it's only a short transport ride."
"You mean the mountains nobody ever sees?"
"Yes. Above this filthy smog. Close to the heavens, to the stars." Beela smiled indulgently. "I find fresh air enhances creativity and well-being."
Well, Jas thought, that was what Betty had always said. If nothing else, Beela shared her friend's appreciate-the-simple-things attitude, something Jas needed right about now. "Take me," she said. "I'm yours."
Beela gave a curt nod to the others. "We have our own transport," the woman said, steering her toward the smallest of the Depot's three transport terminals.
The young couple fell in behind them. Jas found it odd that Beela didn't introduce them. Maybe they were assistants, apprentices, or possibly servants, below a successful artist's notice. If Beela had her own transport, she was obviously doing well.
In fact, her ship was sleek and unmarked. As Jas strapped into one of the sixteen seats, the air locks closed with a hiss, and seconds later the craft lifted off. She sagged against the headrest, while Beela droned on about how much she would enjoy the-visit. Jas hoped Muffin was in bed with his pleasure servant by now and not looking for her. Otherwise she'd suffer the big guy's wrath when they met up later.
Not much more than fifteen minutes later, the transport landed with a resounding thump. Jas followed Beela out onto a windswept plateau on a craggy mountainside. Far below, the city glowed, multicolored and incandescent beneath a blanket of haze. The air was noticeably thinner and colder, lacking the cloying humidity of the Depot itself. Jas filled her lungs. "It's beautiful up here," she said.
"And inside, as well." Beela waved elegantly toward an enormous opening in the rock and said, "Open." The heavy metallic grate lifted on hydraulic pulleys, revealing the glittering interior of a cave carved from walls as shiny and black as obsidian. Jas walked inside, then turned slowly in a circle. Recessed lighting, pinpricks of light in the walls and ceiling, created the appearance of deep space. It was unsettling, making her feel as if she were floating.
Beela continued to sweep forward. Jas almost had to jog to keep up. Snapping her fingers and issuing curt
commands, the woman dispatched dozens of men and women on unknown errands. All of them wore similar plain gray tunics, and their eagerness to please Beela was disconcerting. Several cast furtive welcoming glances in Jas's direction, pricking her curiosity. Had she not known better, she might have thought they were expecting her.
Beela ushered her through another door and into an enormous chamber. Taking up most of the space on the back wall was a huge painting of the piece Beela had shown her in the museum the day before. The depiction of the black hole was so vivid, so arresting, that Jas could almost hear within its depths space and time melding into something unimaginable. Then her gaze crept to the other works, and she saw all were replicas of the first. "Did you paint these?"
"Not all. Some were created by my brothers and sisters," Beela said, waving her hand at the group of plainly dressed, bland-faced men and women gathering at the perimeter of the chamber. The hair on the back of Jas's neck prickled.
Brothers and sisters?
These people didn't look anymore like Beela than Janay had. Swallowing, Jas took a second glance at the crowd. It probably wasn't the brightest move, having come here without her own way of getting back to the Depot.
"Please enjoy the paintings," Beela said, pride evident in her voice.
Jas glowered at the nearest. Her unease slipped into exasperation, prodded by her bone-deep exhaustion. Normal, everyday company would have been nice. But no, she'd have to spend the evening with a bunch of zealots when she was tired, irritable, and impatient for Rom's return. God help the first person who tried to engage her in a discussion on politics or religion. She'd probably snap his head off.
"May I bring you some salve?"
Jas realized belatedly that Beela was standing next to her just a little too close for comfort. Taking a step back, Jas opened her abraded palms. «They
are
sore," she admitted, guilty for thinking badly of Beela when the woman was so accommodating.