31

Column stared at the message on the desktop. It had taken several hours to decipher the cumbersome triple code, but this time it had been worth the effort. The Separatists had gotten the missive sent from this location earlier. They had checked it out, and found that the bota was indeed losing its potency. Much quicker than the spy had expected, they had come to a decision: there would be an all-out attack on the Republic forces on Drongar in the next few days. Every mech and mercenary the other side could field would participate in the battle, with but one purpose: to capture and collect the remaining bota for the Separatists. Many would die or be destroyed on both sides; much of the bota in the fields might be ruined—but the message, short as it was, was quite unambiguous and explicit. They were coming. This Rimsoo, along with all the others, would shortly be overrun. They would not be taking prisoners—at least, none they intended to keep alive.

Column stared at the note with labile emotions and mixed feelings. Yes, it had been expected, if not so soon. Yes, it would be a blow to the Republic, which was the reason that Column had come to be here in the first place. This didn’t change the fact that the responsibility for the loss of life and matériel would be on Column’s head.

The decrypted message, printed on a plastisheet templast, started to curl at the edges. In another minute the process, a combustible oxidation that began the moment the plastisheet was exposed to air, would evaporate the note into nothingness.

Just as the spy’s third identity would soon come to an end.

No matter, either way. The note had served its purpose— Column had committed the contents to memory. The war here would also be effectively over, quite soon. The bota would be collected or destroyed or mutated into uselessness—they all came to the same result, insofar as the combatants were concerned.

Column would be gone by the time the attack came in force. There would be a reason to visit MedStar, and the transport supposed to take the spy there would be…diverted, so that it delivered its cargo to the Separatists’ territory. Column would, of course, have the vouchsafe codes that would allow the ship to pass unscathed. Then, the jump to hyperspace, and those left behind here would be no more than sad memories.

There would be another assignment, on another world, soon enough. The war elsewhere would continue, and Column, under another false identity, would go forth to continue to aid in the destruction of the Republic. However long the task took, it would happen, the spy knew. It would happen.

Column sighed. There was still much to be done here, and little time in which to accomplish it. Records, files, information, some of which might prove of value to Column’s masters, all must be gathered and condensed into data packets one could slip into one’s pocket or travel case. The end—at least here and now—was quite near.

It was nearly midnight. The long-snouted Kubaz costume was gone, and the fat suit was a lot of trouble to flesh up and don, so Kaird had his meeting with Thula dressed as The Silent monk. It was not as if anybody would see them together, so he wasn’t concerned about the impropriety of speaking.

He stood with his back against a thin-walled storage shed just past the main dining hall, apparently alone. Thula was inside the shed, invisible to anybody who might be passing in the hot tropical dark, but easily heard past a screened grille designed to let air circulate through the wall while keeping out the rain.

“You have what I need?”

“Yes.”

“Then you and your friend have your two days’ warning. I suggest you use the time wisely.”

Thula’s voice was a soft, feral purr. “And the balance of our payment?”

“Look atop the inside ledge of the door’s frame.”

There was a brief pause. Kaird’s ears were keen enough to detect the sound of the Falleen’s footfalls as she quickly moved to the door, paused a moment, then returned to the wall. He caught a faint glimmer of light through the mesh as she triggered the credit cube he’d left over the door and checked the holoproj for the sum it contained.

“Most generous,” she said.

“Where is my case?” he asked.

“By now it’s in your kiosk, next to your other luggage. It was a pleasure doing business with you, friend.”

“You have a way to depart?”

“Yes. We’ve secured tentative passage on a small transport vessel, leaving tomorrow. There is a pilot open to bribes.”

“A surface-to-ship transport won’t take you far.”

“Far enough to obtain something else that will. Money is a powerful lubricant.”

“Perhaps we’ll met again someday,” Kaird said.

“Perhaps,” she said.

Kaird moved away from the shed and back to his kiosk. The door had been locked, but such locks as were used here were hardly proof against professional thieves, as Squa Tront and Thula were—among their many other talents.

The carbonite slab stood next to his other bag, disguised so as to resemble a moderately priced travel case. It was almost a perfect match to his luggage. Frozen in carbonite, the bota would keep until somebody triggered the melter. After that, it would have to be processed quickly to avoid the rapid rot that would follow, but that was not his problem. Black Sun had the best chemists in the galaxy on tap; all he had to do was get it to them.

He hefted the case. It was heavy, nearly seventy kilos, he judged, but easily within his ability to pick up and carry.

Kaird felt better in that moment than he had since he had arrived on this pestilent planet. He had done the best he could, given the circumstances, and when all was said and done, he felt he would come out of it looking very good indeed. Just a couple more days of subterfuge, and then on to his homeworld and peace.

A well-deserved peace.

Jos woke up in the middle of the night, grainy from his most recent bout of drinking. He sat up on his cot and rubbed his eyes. He had dreamed of Tolk, and in the dream she had told him why she wanted to go away. Only now, he couldn’t remember what she had said.

Jos stood, padded to the ’fresher, and splashed water on his face. He rinsed his mouth out. He had been drinking lately to such an extent that even the anti-veisalgia drugs that normally quashed hangovers were losing their effectiveness. He looked at himself in the mirror.

What a sad sight you are.

He sighed. No question about that.

What a pitiful excuse for a man, too. Are you just going to let her go? Without a fight?

He frowned at his reflection. Aloud, he said, “What am I supposed to do? She won’t talk to me! And I don’t know why!”

So? You’re not stupid! Figure out why! You couldn’t stop Zan dying—are you just going to let Tolk walk away without even knowing why?

Jos turned away from the mirror and went back to his cot. He stood there, staring at the bed. There was the question, wasn’t it? The big one, the only one: why? What had caused Tolk, the woman who said she loved him, to just up and leave? She had cited the explosion on MedStar, the dozens of deaths—but that didn’t make sense. Tolk had seen worse, far worse, and a lot closer at hand. No, this was different. It was almost as if she’d received a revelation from some primitive planetary deity…

The sudden realization hit him hard enough to make him sit down. It was as if he had been punched in the solar plexus, his wind stolen, so that he couldn’t take another breath. He knew. He knew!

Great-Uncle Erel. He had talked to Tolk. He had told her what it was like to give up family and home forever. He had poisoned Tolk’s thoughts!

It made perfect sense. She had figured the old man would speak to her. Jos had, too, but somehow that knowledge had slipped from his mind—he had been so tired and overworked. In hindsight, it seemed unbelievable that he could have put that possibility out of his thoughts, but he had. Tolk had talked about the explosion, the deaths, the horror of it all, and Jos had fastened upon that and thought about her reasons no further.

Uncle Erel.

Rage rose in him like a hot tide. He stood, went back to the ’fresher, and flipped the sonic shower on. He stepped into the stall, feeling the grime and sleep and sour smell of alcohol that still seeped from his pores begin to sluice away, rolling down his body in dirty waves to the drain. He looked at his chrono—the next transport was scheduled to lift midmorning. Time enough to shower and dress, and then, by everything that was righteous, he would pull rank, call in favors…grow wings and fly if that’s what it took to pay a visit to his loving uncle and have the truth from him—one way or another.