"For you."
"Then come to bed!"
To play an old and familiar game and later to lie and review the events of the day. Had he left anything out of his calculations? Made too great a mistake? Bulem had been only one and others had been tempted even as Vardoon had spread the same, glittering lure to his own prospects. Hints dropped, arrangements, pacts and promises made. Bargains struck over wine and in some cases sealed with a kiss. A kiss and more-pride had no place in the need to survive.
He sank deeper into the fog between sleep and waking, drifting into a doze, into a dream, a universe filled with a single golden egg.
One with a surface marred with teeming life; swarms of black motes dulling the shimmering glory, moving, bunching, spreading as if it had been a vicious mold. A parasitic growth which killed the thing which gave it life; demanding more than was available, taking more than could be spared.
And, as he watched, the egg died.
The surface cracked in a multitude of tiny lines, fragmentation which grew, expanding to reveal the sullen glow of inner fires. A red anger which faded to a dark and useless slag, the darkness edging out to dull the gold, to turn it dark in widening striations of mounting ugliness.
Life died with it; the teeming masses shriveling, burning, turning to crisp and char, to drifting ash, to writhing, tormented shapes. Some rising to stream away as if driven by gusting winds. Some dispersed like a cloud of thinning smoke. Some to hang, crying, lost in the dark and empty void.
Crying… crying… crying…
Dumarest jerked fully awake, rearing to sit upright as the thin, demanding tone filled the mirrored chamber. At his side Fiona stirred, came awake with a sudden gasp to fear, golden hair an embracing curtain, her face dimmed in its shadow, pale and trained in the soft light which had bloomed with the alarm. The warning of Kalova's attack.
Chapter Thirteen
Kalova had bathed and perfumed himself and dressed as for a festival in a bright ensemble of lavender and gold touched with emerald and amber. Drugs had banished the last of his fatigue but he didn't need their accompanying euphoria. Sitting, he felt the blood rush through his veins, sparkling in his brain as if the cranium were filled with effervescent bubbles. A warrior geared and readied for battle-and the combat had begun!
He had picked the time well; an hour before dawn when lightning still shredded the northern sky and the ion count was high. A time when most would be asleep and all would be off their guard. The woman especially with her new lover. He could imagine them locked in each other's arms, replete with passion, dulled with satiation, lost in a febrile world of their own. A weakness which was to his advantage and he pressed it home with ruthless determination.
Pressure on Helm, awake but slow to respond. More on Chargel to strengthen the distraction and then to make a direct attack on poor, bruised Prador who would yield and so make way for the flank attack.
A neat, well-contrived, well-considered plan no matter what Zao might think. A demonstration of the skill which had gained him the position he held. Further proof that he deserved the title and retained the power to hold on to it. The Maximus now and the Maximus for always-or for as long as he should live.
A sobering thought and he banished it-there was no time for anything other than total concentration once an attack had been launched. Yet it crept back with its insidious promptings, with wakened fears and aching regrets. How to retain his awareness? His individuality? How to stave off the inevitable?
How to remain alive?
No-how to extend the life he had?
Lights danced on the display before him, a flickering kaleidoscope which reported every aspect of the changing situation. One which, as yet, followed the pattern he had predicted and, again, he felt a resurgence of confidence. Could the cyber have done better? Could the entire Cyclan? A man could do no more than win and, doing that, he showed he was as good as anything they could provide. Demonstrated, too, that he needed nothing he did not already possess.
Thoughts broken as new lights flashed; Lobel joining the fray and eager for gain. Attacking Ashen who, in turn, allowed Reed to gain an advantage. Skirmishing which did not affect the main issue and there was cause for amusement in their snapping like hungry dogs at the edges of a feast. Scavengers eager to gain by another's efforts but, should they transgress, their punishment would be swift.
The hum of the phone and Arment's face on the screen.
"An exchange, Maximus? Sector E 17 for L 98?"
An interruption, which he could have done without but such were part of the struggle. Swiftly he calculated the display; the exchange would do him no harm and, while giving Arment a slight advantage it would be against Traske.
"A hundredth?"
"Agreed."
One percent of the holding's registered worth now added to Kalova's assets. An easy gain and proof that the sector must be more valuable to Arment than was readily apparent. A move in some elaborate plan of his own? A diversion? A shift of attack or, odd though it seemed, a retreat? Facts he should consider but the lights were dancing too fast, the various moves too complicated for him to waste time on wild speculation.
The phone again and Zao's image.
"My lord, if you require my services I am available."
Waiting in his room, watching the lights, resenting Kalova's skill. But, not; resentment was an emotion the cyber could not feel-yet surely the man must have a remnant of pride?
"My lord?"
"I don't need you. But remain available-that is what you are paid for."
An insult but one Kalova felt he could afford. The cyber, despite his talent, the strength of the association he represented, was basically a servant. On Sacaweena the Maximus was almost a king.
Did the king have to die?
A lull in the action and time for his drug-stimulated brain to turn back to the nagging problem. Life could be extended; on various worlds techniques had been developed to replace worn tissue with fresh. New parts, grafts, organs, implants; weapons in the battle against encroaching years. And, on Pane so he had heard, a brain could be transplanted into a new body-for a price.
One he would pay even if it was the value of a world.
The phone and Helm's face, strained, dewed with sweat.
"Maximus! Sectors T 35 and F 82-your offer?"
"Not interested." Kalova paused, mind racing. "I'll pay twenty percent over the price for sector D 32."
"Twenty-five?"
"Done!"
A pause then Vanderburg, followed by Myra Lancing, Barracola, Judd, Cran-the faces began to blur as did their offers. Fish drawn into his net as he had anticipated, holders frightened at the threat they saw brewing, wanting to erect barriers, make safeguards against a probable turn of events. But his main opponent remained silent-was Fiona Velen still asleep?
Dumarest said, "Wait!"
"But-"
"Wait!" He looked at the dancing lights, the shifts and blurs of changing fortunes; details of exchanges, sales, auctions, the flow of assets, gains and losses due to revised valuations, the status of holders, their holdings and revenues. "Just wait!"
The signals were too complex for him to follow; data received and relayed by the computer, the bank which alone made such fast trading possible. The flickers alone were enough to tire the eyes, to induce a near-hypnotic state in which judgment could be distorted and action delayed. Factors which had to be taken into account as did so many others. Seated before the panel, stilled by his command, Fiona chafed and was the victim of surging fears.
Wait-but what if she waited too long? How to sit and do nothing while under attack? To watch as situations changed to develop into others, to ignore opportunities and incipient threats. To obey the harsh voice of a man who could know nothing of the complexities involved. "Earl! I-"