"Priestess…stop it, will you?" She breathed heavily, weaving, her eyes glazed over. I put an arm over her shoulder and led her gently away from the body. "The girl needs its help, Lady."
Priestess knelt by the girl, staring into space, still breathing hard. She was not going to be any help.
The girl's eyes flickered. She breathed shallowly. Dragon knelt by her side.
"It's all right now," I said to the girl. "It's over. Can it hear us?"
Her lips moved, but I heard nothing. "Can we give it more water?" I asked.
"Just a sip," the Sandman said. I touched the canteen to her parched, bleeding lips. She bit at it like a dog, frantic. I pulled it away.
"Please give us its name."
"…wrists." I reached behind her back and slit her bonds with a bootknife. She sighed and her arms twitched. When she brought them around to the front her wrists were bloody. I noticed the bottoms of her feet were shredded.
"Its name?" I asked again.
"Four Oh Four," she replied slowly. "Our name is Four Oh Four. They killed it—they killed Two Six Four. It was our friend—our good friend!"
"It's her, Lady!" I said excitedly. "Lady Arbell—it's her! Ranwan Lima! We've found her!"
Priestess was breathing a little easier now. "Good," she said quietly. She sounded completely exhausted.
"You're bleeding, Nine—you're wounded!" Dragon stared at his hand—it was covered in blood. He had just touched Priestess. Blood ran down the left sleeve of Priestess's field coat. We got her jacket off and examined the wound. A deep slash down her upper arm. I ripped open the civilian medkit we had purchased in Ostra Bal. My hands were shaking. If the Sandman noted Dragon calling Lady Arbell "Nine," he didn't say anything.
"It's nothing," Priestess said wearily. "Don't worry."
"Your employer," the Sandman observed quietly, "is one tough cookie."
"We know," I replied.
Chapter 18:
Satan's Spawn
"It should not be much longer, Lady." Our minder from the Ministry of Reform was the same slick young man we had first run into at the site of the aircar ambush. He was not letting us out of his sight. Priestess, Dragon, and I were being held with Maralee Whitney in a VIP lounge in Katag Starport. A young Ministry of Space officer was manning the information desk. He was certainly a security official, and there was no doubt the VIP lounge was a high-class detention facility.
"Our thanks, Cit." Priestess was as cool as ice, but I was nervous and hyper. Whit, previously Ranwan Lima, now Ala-Ka-Sakara, was cruising on mags. She had sultry olive skin and wore dark glasses and a wig of curly black hair. Priestess had repaired most of the bruises on her face. Dragon was silent and moody, pacing like a caged beast. They had taken our bogus ID's and Systie travel permits. They had also confiscated our vac guns, politely but firmly. The Director of Reform, Japrad Marsh, was evidently making a major effort to get us off-world. He had provided Whit with the disguise, an excellent matching ID package and a fully-approved travel permit. However, it now appeared that a struggle was underway for our bodies.
"What do you think, Thinker?" Priestess kept her voice down.
"I think there's nothing further we can do to influence events, Priestess. We've done all we can. Now it's in the hands of the Gods."
"I think Tara's plan is working," Priestess said. "Marsh wants all that money. If we don't leave, he doesn't get it."
"We'll see."
"If they detain us, we go to the next step."
"I hope that won't be necessary." The next step involved revealing our Legion affiliation as a last desperate attempt to frighten the locals into letting us depart quietly. Nobody wanted trouble with the Legion—but we were not on an official mission; it would be sheer bluff and it could backfire badly.
"The shuttle is leaving shortly," Dragon remarked. I glanced at my chron; 1100 hours local. It did not look good.
"If this doesn't work," I told Priestess quietly, "we'll never see the light of day again."
###
"Its men are to stand aside, Captain, or we open fire!"
"You have no business here, mister!"
"Our men are under orders to fire if fired upon! Consider the consequences carefully, sir!" The three officers were face to face, snarling at each other. The VIP lounge was swarming with armed goons, Ministry of Space security police dressed in black, Ministry of Reform troops in prison brown, and a third gang in dark blue uniforms, squaring off against the other two groups. The soldiers bristled with arms, SG's and autosubs and vac guns. Everyone was prepped to fire; and if anyone did, it would be a bloody massacre and there would not be many survivors.
"Terrific," Dragon said glumly. The blue shirts had forced their way in first, and demanded to examine our documents. Then the Space and Reform crash teams burst in the door, attempting to eject the blues, and now it looked as if everyone was going to die. We sat in a corner, completely helpless.
"Who are these people, Cit?" I asked our Ministry of Reform minder.
"ICAC," he replied grimly. He had his handgun out and he was pale and sweating. "Independent Commission Against Corruption. They can smell money in the dark, the bastards!"
"We have every right to be here, Captain," the ICAC man was saying. He was a short, stocky man with long, slick dark hair. There was no doubt he was a professional police officer, and as single-minded as a biogen. He didn't look like the type of person who was going to back off. He waved a printout that showed Ranwan Lima, pale delicate face, short straight black hair, and smoky grey eyes. "We wish to examine these two female units! There is a stop order on this one—why so touchy, if there is nothing to hide?"
"You are on our turf, mister—back off!"
"What's the Ministry of Reform doing here anyway? This unit is wanted by the governor, Captain! It's you who should consider the consequences!"
"That's got to be it, sir!" One of the blue shirts pointed at Whit. "The one with the dark skin—the facial structure is the same!" My adrenalin count was off the scale. I was aching to shoot him right between the eyes, but I was unarmed. Our minder was on his comset.
"It's for Cit, Sir." Our young Ministry of Reform watchdog held out the comset to the ICAC officer, who reached out for the instrument, casually brushing a gun barrel away from his temple with his other hand. He was as cool as ice.
"This is Major Fifteen Sweet-Teal of the ICAC. Who's calling?"
"Fifteen, this is Japrad Marsh, Director of Reform. We understand there's a little problem at the starport." We could hear The Mask clearly. The VIP room was suddenly dead quiet.
"There's no problem, sir. We've just detained a wanted criminal that your Ministry was attempting to smuggle off-planet. We're just about to notify our superiors."
"Please set the comset to muffled, Major."
"Sure," the Major said. He made the adjustment. "Now, did Cit have anything further? We have a call to make."
We could not hear the response, but it was clear that the Director of Reform did have something further.
###
Biergart was on his knees begging for mercy, his arms tied behind him, his face drenched in sweat. I pressed the vac gun to his forehead and fired. Blood and brains splattered all over the wall and the shot was deafening. I awoke screaming, covered in icy sweat, my heart racing.
Priestess was beside me, cool arms suddenly there, a whisper of silken hair on my cheek. "It's all right, Thinker. Was it Biergart again?"
I collapsed back onto the pillow. It was dark and quiet and cool.
"Yes. It was Biergart. I shot him right in the forehead." And his eyes—they had been full of horror.