Dillon’s transit point was the eye of a hurricane.
The Messenger brought them into the main room of what might have been a large storage hut. All the windows were barred and shuttered. Dillon crept over to the massive double doors and peered through a spyhole. He could see snatches of a broad patio covered by a striped awning. A few sheets of paper were scattered about the floor, along with some lengths of twine, a pair of overturned chairs, three lanterns, and a pile of boxes. Otherwise, nothing.
He shifted to another window and saw bedlam on all sides, people running and screaming and the sounds of clashing metal. Dillon wondered at the absence of bombs or guns, but not for long, because there came a sound he had learned to recognize at the Academy. A brief, searing crackle was followed by the stench of a lightning strike, which meant someone was firing an energy weapon. The crowd only surged and screamed all the more.
The Messenger had told Dillon very little about their destination. Their primary contact was a merchant in a disputed territory. The man dealt mainly in carpets but was also a conduit for black market goods. How the merchant had been contacted by the alliance, the Messenger had no idea.
Aldo was typical of most Messengers. They were educated and cultured and utterly unaccustomed to danger. They loathed Dillon for the way he seemed to enjoy peril. What he felt really wasn’t enjoyment, however. Whenever faced with real hazards, Dillon simply came into his own.
Aldo remained frozen in the position of his arrival. Then the energy weapon fired again, only this time it carved a hole through the wall beside the main doors. Another few inches to the left and the Messenger would have been headless. Dillon scrambled over and plucked the officer’s legs from under him. Aldo hit the stone floor hard.
“Stay down.” Dillon waited long enough to ensure the man did not rise, then crawled back to the side window. He risked a glance, then shifted back to the spyhole. “The crowds are thinning. Looks like the assault is easing . . .”
Dillon stopped in mid-sentence because a woman suddenly transited into the hut. She was scarcely more than a girl, a blonde-haired wispy thing. He thought she looked like a street waif, with pale eyes that showed neither surprise nor mercy. She carefully surveyed them and the room. In the hut’s meager light Dillon saw how she checked them for weapons, took in the Messenger’s gaudy attire, and then dismissed them as holding no threat. It was only after she vanished that Dillon realized her tan coverall was perhaps a uniform.
From where he sprawled on the floor, Aldo gasped, “There are no transiters in this system!”
Dillon had to laugh. The guy had finally offered him one bit of intel, and it was totally wrong. Dillon crawled over and crouched down beside the Messenger. One look into his terror-stricken gaze was enough to know he was a liability. “Okay, Aldo. Now’s the time you tell me why we’re here.”
“She, the Advocate—”
“Not here on this planet. This room. You said your contact was a merchant, right?”
“Carpets, yes. But he also dealt in intel.”
“How did he make contact with the system?”
“There was another Praetorian Guard.”
The way he spoke left Dillon certain. “He’s dead, right? The guard.”
“Vanished.”
Which was the same thing, most likely. “Let me guess. Your group set the guard up here with a lot of gold, and he came buying intel, which this particular merchant offered to supply.”
“How did you know?”
Dillon didn’t bother responding. He assumed one of the merchant’s own group probably sold out the guardsman. All it would have taken in a lawless world was one word in the wrong ear about a lone guy walking around asking the wrong questions and carrying gold. The killers probably lined up down the street.
Which meant the Advocate was probably right about his chances of survival.
But there was nothing to be gained from telling this to the Messenger. Aldo was already scared enough.
“Look around. Your contact must have known something was going down. The place is totally empty.” Dillon gripped the guy’s shoulder and heaved him to a seated position. “So maybe he’ll come back. But right now I need you to leave.”
“I . . . What?”
“Go. Head out. You got me here. Your job is done.”
“I don’t . . . You’re staying?”
Dillon thought the guy’s astonishment was almost comic. “Didn’t you hear Cylian? Somebody thinks this is important enough to risk my life.”
Aldo looked ready to argue. Then the dusty air was rent by a high-pitched scream. He winced, then cried, “Come with me!”
“Not on your life.” Which Dillon thought was good for another quick grin. “Have a good trip.”
Aldo started to argue, then seemed to think better of it and vanished.
Dillon crawled back to the window facing the main avenue. The hut was fronted by a broad display area that stretched out to meet the avenue. The streets he could see were almost empty now. He spotted a few furtive heads that appeared and then swiftly vanished. He suddenly realized he had a raging thirst, strong enough to tempt him to open the doors and go in search of a frosty mug.
Then the tiny young woman in uniform transited back into the hut. She was accompanied by a much larger guy, this one holding a weapon Dillon did not recognize. A rifle of some sort. The guy held it like he knew his business.
The woman spoke in a throaty whisper, her voice like her eyes, belonging to somebody much older. “You want to live, yes?”
“Absolutely.”
“Tell us why you are here.”
Dillon hesitated, which only caused the man to lift his gun and take a more careful aim.
He decided it was time to throw the dice. Gamble with a life that some people thought was down to its last few puffs.
He transited from one side of the room to the other. Then back. Again. A third time, only faster.
The pair watched in open-mouthed astonishment.
“I’ve come looking for you guys,” Dillon told them. “Take me to your leader.”