Dillon’s instruction as an interstellar spy consisted of one night’s language training and a fifteen-minute warning. Most of the cautionary period was spent trying to land a date. And failing.
His transition from prisoner to secret agent was handled by Advocate Cylian and a senior Messenger. The Advocate booked him into quarters used by administrative types stationed on Serena for some temporary duty. Dillon had a very nice hotel suite with a mini kitchen, but it still felt like a barracks. He ate in the main hall and returned to his chambers, exhausted from the longest day of his life. Then he remembered to put on the language crown Cylian had left for him. At least that was familiar enough. He snapped it open, fitted it on so the communication jewel resided over the center of his forehead, and collapsed into bed.
The next morning, Cylian escorted Dillon to her office and apartment. They transited into both several times, until she was certain he had them well established as emergency links.
Cylian doubted very much that Dillon would survive, and told him so repeatedly.
The senior Messenger who accompanied them was named Aldo. He was assigned as Dillon’s link to his new destination. Aldo clearly considered Dillon competition for Cylian’s attention, which was pretty amusing, since she showed them both the same frosty attitude. But Dillon only needed to smile in Cylian’s general direction for Aldo to get all red in the face. The guy was snotty, vain, and beanpole thin. He wore a tailored uniform with what appeared to be real gold buttons. His brown hair was a rat’s nest that probably required an hour in front of the mirror and a quart of wax to get just right.
“All of this is a terrible mistake,” Cylian repeatedly told Dillon. “If I had my way, we’d take at least a few months and train you properly in all manners of tradecraft.”
The word carried electric appeal. Tradecraft. He asked, “You’d like to play instructor?”
She was an inch or so shorter than he was, and trim in a manner that only heightened her feminine curves. Her icy attitude was now spiced by fretful concern. “It’s such a shame you won’t live to study with anybody.”
Aldo offered a sniff of derision. “At least this one is expendable.”
The Advocate dismissed the guy with a single frigid glance. Then she caught sight of Dillon’s grin and narrowed her gaze even further. “Rightly or wrongly, my superiors believe your frontier-world upbringing has instilled an ability to adapt to the unknown and survive. I only wish I could agree with them.”
“So what reward do I get for proving you wrong?”
“Pay attention, please. We can’t supply you with false papers or even a decent reason for being there. The situation is too fluid, the planet too chaotic. All we have are rumors of a weapon capable of cutting through a warrior’s strongest shield.”
That got his full attention. “Wait, you mean some humans have harnessed the aliens’ power of attack?”
“We have no idea.”
“Why would they even want to do that?”
“Which precisely is the reason I have argued against your being inserted. We simply do not know enough.”
“What do you know?”
“Very little. And I am strictly forbidden to discuss the suspicions that have raised so many alarms.” She clearly disliked that intensely.
Dillon, however, found things falling into place. “Makes sense.”
“Excuse me?”
“They don’t want me to go in with preconceived notions. Smart.”
She cocked her head to one side, causing her raven hair to spill over one shoulder like a dark frost. “Which is precisely what my superiors have been saying.”
“And they’re right.”
She and the Messenger both scrutinized him now. Finally Cylian said, “Find this weapon, if it exists. Buy or steal one if you can. And get out.”
“If I survive,” Dillon added for her.
“You are headed into a merchant’s compound on a mining world. In truth, it is little more than a pirate stronghold. There is no recognized law, no order, not even a real government. Each territory is at war with all the others. Alliances are fluid and highly unstable.” Her voice grew increasingly strident. “I urge you to refuse this assignment.”
“What would you think of me if I turned and ran?”
Her gaze carried the force of an ink-dark laser. “I would think, ‘There goes a man who will breathe his way through another hour.’”