“Great Mother!” Eyes watering, Gann choked on the liquid he’d just sipped. “It tastes like boiled twigs. If you wished me dead, B’kah, I would have hoped you’d choose a more compassionate method than this.” He shoved aside the Quillie’s cook’s first attempt at beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
Rom helped himself to a serving of the chilled, sour-smelling beverage and raised the glass to the light. “The color isn’t bad. Not quite golden, as it should be, but a pleasant light brown.”
Gann made a contemptuous snort.
Rom closed his eyes and sipped, rolling the liquid over his tongue before swallowing. “We will keep trying,” he said, and poured the remainder of the beer into the sink.
“Be honest with me, old friend. It is not this…refreshment that has you rhapsodizing about ‘smooth texture, clear, crisp taste, and lingering salubrious effects.’ It is the woman.”
Rom gave a deep, enigmatic chuckle. “The potential for profit selling beer is staggering. There is nothing like it in the galaxy.”
“Evidently,” Gann said under his breath. He picked up his playing cards. “I raise you five units.” He slid the currency toward Rom. “And one gold chip.”
Rom scrutinized the five cards cupped in his palms. Jas had given Gann her deck of cards and taught him how to play various forms of what Earth-dwellers called poker. After they left the Depot, Gann had introduced him to the positively entertaining game. It eased somewhat his impatience to reach Skull’s Doom, complete his business, and return to Jas.
“I match you,” Rom told Gann, keeping all expression from his face as he considered his cards—one depicting a singular red gem, another with a singular black leaf, and three cards with seven units apiece, black leaves, gems, and hearts. An excellent hand, one Gann had called a full palace—for whatever reason. “And I raise you one cube of salt.”
A smile tugged at Gann’s mouth. With the tips of his fingers, he pushed a tiny white cube next to Rom’s wager.
The men presented their hands.
“Full palace,” Rom announced.
“Full house,” Gann corrected. “But for a B’kah, I suppose the two are interchangeable.”
Rom cast him a long look.
“Three of a kind. Your victory.” Gann pushed the salt and currency toward Rom. With admirable skill, he began shuffling the deck.
The viewscreen chimed. Terz appeared. “Call’s come in for you, sir. Drandon Keer.”
“Keer?” Rom gave a laugh of disbelief. “I haven’t heard from the man since we left Nanda with that bag full of stolen seedpods. Put him through.” The viewscreen flickered. Rom spread his palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “Drandon, you unrepentant space bandit!”
Drandon gave a familiar lopsided grin, his teeth blinding in his now deeply suntanned face. “B’kah. It’s been a long time.”
“You’re damned right it has. You’re looking good. I take it growing Nandan silk agrees with you. How’s the plantation?”
“Quite profitable. But those pesky Nandans won’t give up. Just last harvest they intercepted one of my outbound shipments. I blame them for all this gray hair.”
“A familiar refrain. I believe those were your words the day I hauled you out of that Nandan excuse for a prison.”
The men shared a laugh laden with memories. The years had mellowed Keer’s harder edges. Rom recalled the spunky Nandan princess who’d helped his friend obtain the seedpods. “And how is lovely Jhiara?”
“Very well,” Drandon replied smugly. “Three children now. All under six seasons. And you?”
“Still married to my work.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t found a wife yourself. Surely there’s a woman who’d put up with you.”
Jas had been gone just two nights, yet it seemed like years since he’d last held her in his arms. “I may have found her,” he said casually. “Her willingness to put up with me is one of her many endearing qualities.”
Drandon chuckled. After a pause, his smile faltered. “Listen, I’ve come across something. Something you of all men might want to know about.”
The remark didn’t surprise Rom. The smuggler– turned–plantation owner—illegal plantation owner—was not the type to make casual social calls.
Drandon opened his hand. “One of the seedpod pickers I hired for the season gave this to my wife. Claimed it would bring her to the truth.” He held the glinting object toward the screen. “I didn’t think so.”
Rom shoved away from the table. Every bad memory he had coalesced into the medallion resting in Drandon’s palm. Praying hands, a rising sun. Utter evil. “Where is the picker now?” he demanded, his heart hammering inside his chest.
“Gone,” Drandon answered regretfully. “Before I could squeeze any information from him or the rest of his fanatic pals.”
“Whatever you do, don’t allow anyone to wear the necklace.” Rom pushed himself to his feet. “Lock it away until I see it for myself.”
“When will you arrive?”
Rom glanced at the progress display next to the time-teller on the bulkhead. “If I divert now—at maximum speed—I’ll be there by morning.” He could fly there and still make it back to the Depot by nightfall.
Drandon held up one hand in farewell. “Rom, Gann,” he said. “Until then.” The screen went blank.
Rom swore under his breath and raked his hands through his hair.
“It may be the same cult,” Gann said. “Or a perhaps an imitator.”
Rom’s gut clenched. “Either way, I fear the darkness has finally caught up with us.”
At the arrivals checkpoint Jas stood before a floor-to-ceiling display that showed incoming flights. She scanned the list, looking for the Quillie. Disappointment flooded her. They’d posted a seven-hour delay, long enough even to warrant returning to the Romjha. She searched the crowd for Muffin and found him pretending to peruse the contents of a food stand.
Turning, she pushed her way through the travelers and traders wedged into every available inch in the cavernous but stuffy chamber. She made sure that she held her purse close as she squeezed through the doors to the foggy early evening streets. The pungent odor of overheated bodies blended with rocket fumes. Despite the poor air quality, she breathed deep, glad to be outside after almost an hour inside the terminal.
Except for a group of boisterous pleasure servants on display on the opposite corner, the boulevard was almost peaceful. The musical sound of young women’s laughter tinkled from behind her. Just as she suspected, Muffin had slowed his pace near the pleasure-servant stage. A few of the more enthusiastic girls had leaped down and were tugging on the big man’s shirt. He glanced at her helplessly. She spread her hands and shrugged, and he turned his attention to them, no doubt arranging some late-night entertainment. He’d been following her relentlessly, faultlessly, for two days. Even when she’d tried to shake him, just to see if she could, he’d always shown up moments later. The way she saw it, he deserved a little fun. She was more than capable of walking the few blocks back to the hotel on her own. She turned left at the first intersection, where the pavement narrowed, just as she remembered. Shadows slanted across the frond-trees between her and the street. From the depths of the gap between two buildings, she heard the sounds of a scuffle.
Stay clear of the alleys, Rom had warned. She quickened her pace just as a man bolted out of the darkness. Cloak swirling, he stumbled across her path and fell to the ground. She barely avoided tripping over him.
“Careful! You might hurt someone,” she scolded irritably. He groaned, then rolled to his side. “Are you all right?” she asked guiltily, but he didn’t answer.
Heart thudding against her ribs, she glanced around for possible help. No officials in sight, and Muffin hadn’t yet caught up. Everyone else looked to be hurrying about his or her own business.
She bent forward, then caught herself, not wanting to get too close. Her soldier’s instinct urged her to nudge the writhing man with the toe of her boot to get his attention, but she nixed that, too. “Can you walk?”
He moaned pitifully.
“Listen, I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’ll bring help.” Something faintly sweet permeated the air, like old incense. It quickly changed into the sharp odor of male sweat. Then someone tugged on the strap of her purse from behind.
“Hey!” She resisted and pulled the opposite way.
The man sprawled at her feet came miraculously back to life, leaping up as a shadowy figure appeared behind her. Jas lurched forward in a running start. Another yank on her purse wrenched it off her shoulder and onto the street with a muffled tinkle of breaking glass—likely her salt vials and a tiny bottle of perfume.
“Help!” she shouted. “Thieves—” A hand clamped down over her mouth. Then a sinewy arm caught her around her waist, pinning her to a strong, wiry body.
Maybe they weren’t going to rob her. Maybe they intended worse. They could rape her, or kill her. Terror turned her insides to water. Inhale…exhale…inhale. Grinding her teeth, she fought against it, using everything she had to turn her fear into something useful. No use dying over a few grains of salt.
A robed, shadowy figure rummaged through her purse. The scent of spilled perfume seemed horribly out of place, wafting as it did to her nose. Nearby, one of her lipsticks rolled lazily into a puddle, chased by an unbroken vial of salt.
“You there! Leave her be!” an indignant female voice called out in the misty twilight. More voices joined in, all shouting for assistance. Jas tried to wrest free. But the man who held her shoved her forward, and she hit the wet pavement hard, scraping her palms. The sound of shoes slapping against the wet street came closer, and her attackers fled in the opposite direction. Jas kneeled, panting and tingling with shock.
Gentle hands closed over her upper arm. “Oh, my,” a woman said, helping Jas to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
Jas’s cheek brushed against a fluffy gray cloak. Her gaze swerved upward. “Beela!”
The woman’s austere features softened slightly. “A fortuitous reunion, wouldn’t you say?”
The hatch lifted and Rom strode down the gangway, leaving Gann behind to ready the Quillie for departure as soon as he returned. This visit to Drandon’s silk plantation was not a social call. Although Rom was anxious to see his friend, he had no time to spare. A sense of foreboding continued to shadow him. As soon as he examined Drandon’s discovery, he would return to collect Jas. And only when he’d assured himself of her safety would he be able to rest easy again.
Still, the hazy sunshine felt surprisingly good. A humid breeze bore the distinctive perfume of Nandan silk blossoms and left a film of moisture on his exposed skin. He welcomed it. Unlike most of the traders he’d known over the years, he preferred solid ground to the deck of a spaceship. There was a certain permanence to living on a planet, something he was just beginning to realize he missed. The dangers and harsh loneliness of a smuggler’s life no longer held the allure it once had.
His friend called out across the landing zone: “Romlijhian!”
Rom waved and increased his pace across the gritty soil. Despite the man’s expression of concern, Drandon looked better than Rom had ever seen him. He wore the look of happiness and satisfaction only a good marriage could bring.
A mix of emotions tumbled through Rom. He wanted what Drandon had—a woman he loved by his side, a home where he could put down roots, a stable livelihood. He’d come to believe these things were for other men. But his life was his own now, was it not? Such contentment could be his, too.
Rom grabbed Drandon’s forearm in a vigorous shake. The formal greeting dissolved into a warm embrace. Then, gripping each other’s shoulders, they regarded each other. For the moment, the reason for Rom’s visit was left unspoken.
They stepped apart. Rom scanned the lush, landscaped gardens, beyond which sat a hangar sheltering at least ten starspeeders. Drandon had never been a man to rely on others for protection. Consequently, it didn’t surprise Rom to see him in possession of a well-armed personal fleet. Closer in, a red ball and a worn, toy ketta-cat lay next to the path. Rom smiled. “Where are Jhiara and the children?”
“She took them to the sea. I’m afraid they won’t return until tomorrow. We didn’t expect your visit.” Drandon searched Rom’s face. “She’ll want to see you.”
“As much as I’d like to stay, I can’t. Someone awaits me at the Depot.”
Drandon nodded gravely. “Come inside,” he urged. “At second sunrise the temperature will become unbearable.”
They walked toward a sprawling one-level abode built with natural-rock walls and surrounded by shaded courtyards and a wide, wraparound porch—a typical design in tropical climates.
Drandon led him onto the veranda. It overlooked a vast plantation of young Nandan silk trees. Rom admired the view, evidence of Drandon’s years of hard work, while a young female servant poured juice into two iced glasses, then left, her slippered feet silent on the flagstone floor. Rom followed Drandon’s lead and settled onto one of the wickedly inviting cushions made from Nandan silk. The planet’s second sun, a tiny, white-hot orb, peeked above the horizon.
“Over the next hour the temperature will climb twenty degrees,” Drandon said. He lifted the lid of one of two ornately carved wooden boxes and handed Rom a dried leaf rolled tightly around what was surely top-grade tobacco. “When it does, we will lower the molecular heat barrier. The humidity here is formidable.”
“As bad as on Nanda?” Rom asked as Drandon lit his cigar.
“Worse. Of course, Jhiara loves it, being Nandan.”
“And you?”
“Actually, I detest it”—cigar clamped between his teeth, Drandon laced his hands behind his head—“less and less each day.”
Rom chuckled. He understood as only another trader could. Success was a thing to be proud of. “Like your wife, the trees love the climate, which is driving your change of heart.”
“They grow twice as fast and produce four times as much as those on Nanda.” The man’s eyes shone. “My grandchildren will live to see this plantation eclipse the production of that entire planet.” Suddenly pensive, he shifted his gaze to the rows of lush green trees on the hillsides below. “Or will they?” he asked quietly.
Rom shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps I can tell you more after I examine that medallion.”
With a resigned expression on his face, his friend lifted the lid of the second box, withdrew a lumpy drawstring pouch, and handed it to Rom. “Whether or not the eight families decide to back you, I will. Rest assured, I will fight—”
“I am not here to recruit anyone,” Rom said stiffly. “Nor to investigate the possibility of another war. I came for personal reasons. The galaxy is no longer my responsibility.”
“Somehow I find it hard to believe you believe that.”
Rom let Drandon’s remark brush past him. All his life he’d shouldered the expectations of others. No more. He was not the B’kah. He was a simple trader with his own interests at heart. He wouldn’t pretend to buoy Drandon’s hopes. He might be a hero in Jasmine’s eyes, but he didn’t care to raise anyone else’s expectations simply to end up dashing them.
“I’m here because of my own selfish interests,” Rom said briskly. “I don’t represent the eight families, or wish to. And the Vash Nadah are mired in complacency, so don’t look to them for help, either, should the Dark Years come upon us again. Continue to arm yourself and your family. Do whatever you need to keep your own interests safe. Better yet, search out a compatible planet and move there, as far away from the populated regions as you can.”
Drandon regarded him skeptically. “Run?”
“It is what I plan to do. There is a woman—I care about her a great deal. If your discovery proves to be the shadow of a larger threat, I intend to take her and her family to where they’ll be safe.” Tamping down on unwanted emotion, Rom untied the drawstring and emptied the purse’s contents into his palm. “The Family of the New Day used a depiction of clasped hands below a rising sun. This shows the hands below a nebula, or perhaps a plasma cloud or black hole.”
His friend’s relief was palpable. “So my picker was nothing more than some fanatic with an interesting bauble?”
“Perhaps.” Rom flipped over the medallion. “I suspect he belongs to a group that wants to reclaim the Family of the New Day’s former glory. The design is very similar.” Rom paused. “Unfortunately, if the Vash Nadah’s hold on the Trade Federation continues to deteriorate, I fear we will see more and more individuals like your picker.”
He pressed the engraved golden disk between his palms, and a faint tingling sensation crept up his wrists. Startled, he released it. The discovery dismayed him. “This is cast from an empathic alloy, like the original medallions.”
“These alloys were banned after the Great War,” Drandon pointed out.
“They were.” Rom kept all expression from his face as horrific memories threatened to overtake him. “But Sharron had a knack for reengineering banned technologies. This indicates that not all of what he worked toward died with him.”
Drandon gestured to the necklace with his cigar. “Isn’t it true that empathic alloys were once used to alter brain function?”
Rom nodded.
“So if I were to wear that medallion, someone could make me do their bidding?”
“They might influence your behavior,” Rom answered. “But they could not control it. Sharron came the closest of all. He possessed some psychic ability—a twisted sense of empathy, you might say—and he used the medallion to enhance this ability. During the war, when we experimented in a similar way with confiscated medallions, we were able to relay suggestions to our subjects’ neurons. But actual mind control was never achieved.”
Drandon narrowed his eyes. “What was achieved?”
“We found that most could deflect the hints we sent, unless they were weakened from sickness or exhaustion. Animals were another matter entirely.” Rom slid the medallion near where a Centaurian morning-fly was exploring the base of his glass. It hopped onto the medallion. Then, without warning, the insect rose sharply and slammed itself into the wall.
Stunned, the ex-smuggler contemplated the glittering splotch of moisture left on the stones. “Great Mother,” Drandon muttered. “That was quite a graphic demonstration.”
“Lesser creatures do not possess the strength of will we do.”
“In that, I hope you’re right. Just as I pray Sharron took the knowledge of the rest of the banned technology to his grave.”
“I suspect he did. From what my men found on his base, it appears he trusted few with his secrets. Only the elders of his sect even knew of the cloning, or far worse, his plans to resurrect antimatter weaponry.”
“Antimatter weaponry!” Drandon was uncharacteristically shaken. “During the Great War, the warlords used the like to obliterate entire planetary systems.”
“Sharron aspired to wipe out far more than mere systems, Drandon. Had we not stopped him, had we listened to the eight families and dismissed him as a harmless fanatic, he might have followed through with his goal. He wanted to detonate an immense antimatter explosion in the galaxy’s core, triggering, he hoped, its collapse. Whether or not that’s scientifically possible is debatable, but his group is a doomsday cult on a grand scale. Sharron believed we’d all be reborn into a ‘New Day.’”
“With him as God, no doubt,” Drandon remarked dryly.
“I must go,” Rom said, rising to his feet. Although Jas was safe within Muffin’s vigilant protection, in light of what he’d learned today, he wouldn’t rest until he was back by her side.
Jas leaned against Beela. Her legs trembled with the adrenaline still pumping through her veins. “I…I thought that man was hurt.”
Beela sniffed. “I suppose you weren’t the first traveler to think so. And you certainly won’t be the last.” Her two companions, a man and a young woman, collected Jas’s scattered belongings and returned them to her muddy purse. Meekly, they handed it to her.
Jas grasped the strap gratefully. “Thank you. Thanks, all of you.”
“We were on our way home when we heard your cries,” Beela said, gathering her cloak around her. She took Jas by the arm. “It’s not wise to be alone after such trauma. Come back to the compound with us. We’ll share a light meal and some lalla-blossom tea.”
“I don’t want to impose,” Jas protested weakly.
Beela gave a motherly frown. “You are not an imposition. Spend this evening among friends.”
“I have to be at the terminal in a few hours. Is it far?”
“In the mountains. But it’s only a short transport ride.”
“You mean the mountains nobody ever sees?”
“Yes. Above this filthy smog. Close to the heavens, to the stars.” Beela smiled indulgently. “I find fresh air enhances creativity and well-being.”
Well, Jas thought, that was what Betty had always said. If nothing else, Beela shared her friend’s appreciate-the-simple-things attitude, something Jas needed right about now. “Take me,” she said. “I’m yours.”
Beela gave a curt nod to the others. “We have our own transport,” the woman said, steering her toward the smallest of the Depot’s three transport terminals.
The young couple fell in behind them. Jas found it odd that Beela didn’t introduce them. Maybe they were assistants, apprentices, or possibly servants, below a successful artist’s notice. If Beela had her own transport, she was obviously doing well.
In fact, her ship was sleek and unmarked. As Jas strapped into one of the sixteen seats, the air locks closed with a hiss, and seconds later the craft lifted off. She sagged against the headrest, while Beela droned on about how much she would enjoy the visit. Jas hoped Muffin was in bed with his pleasure servant by now and not looking for her. Otherwise she’d suffer the big guy’s wrath when they met up later.
Not much more than fifteen minutes later, the transport landed with a resounding thump. Jas followed Beela out onto a windswept plateau on a craggy mountainside. Far below, the city glowed, multicolored and incandescent beneath a blanket of haze. The air was noticeably thinner and colder, lacking the cloying humidity of the Depot itself. Jas filled her lungs. “It’s beautiful up here,” she said.
“And inside, as well.” Beela waved elegantly toward an enormous opening in the rock and said, “Open.” The heavy metallic grate lifted on hydraulic pulleys, revealing the glittering interior of a cave carved from walls as shiny and black as obsidian. Jas walked inside, then turned slowly in a circle. Recessed lighting, pinpricks of light in the walls and ceiling, created the appearance of deep space. It was unsettling, making her feel as if she were floating.
Beela continued to sweep forward. Jas almost had to jog to keep up. Snapping her fingers and issuing curt commands, the woman dispatched dozens of men and women on unknown errands. All of them wore similar plain gray tunics, and their eagerness to please Beela was disconcerting. Several cast furtive welcoming glances in Jas’s direction, pricking her curiosity. Had she not known better, she might have thought they were expecting her.
Beela ushered her through another door and into an enormous chamber. Taking up most of the space on the back wall was a huge painting of the piece Beela had shown her in the museum the day before. The depiction of the black hole was so vivid, so arresting, that Jas could almost hear within its depths space and time melding into something unimaginable. Then her gaze crept to the other works, and she saw all were replicas of the first. “Did you paint these?”
“Not all. Some were created by my brothers and sisters,” Beela said, waving her hand at the group of plainly dressed, bland-faced men and women gathering at the perimeter of the chamber. The hair on the back of Jas’s neck prickled. Brothers and sisters? These people didn’t look anymore like Beela than Janay had. Swallowing, Jas took a second glance at the crowd. It probably wasn’t the brightest move, having come here without her own way of getting back to the Depot.
“Please enjoy the paintings,” Beela said, pride evident in her voice.
Jas glowered at the nearest. Her unease slipped into exasperation, prodded by her bone-deep exhaustion. Normal, everyday company would have been nice. But no, she’d have to spend the evening with a bunch of zealots when she was tired, irritable, and impatient for Rom’s return. God help the first person who tried to engage her in a discussion on politics or religion. She’d probably snap his head off.
“May I bring you some salve?”
Jas realized belatedly that Beela was standing next to her, just a little too close for comfort. Taking a step back, Jas opened her abraded palms. “They are sore,” she admitted, guilty for thinking badly of Beela when the woman was so accommodating.
The woman turned Jas’s hands this way and that. Then she brushed her cool fingertip over Jas’s wrist. “So beautiful,” she said in a soft, almost reverent tone. “So pale.”
Jas gave a nervous chuckle. “And here I am envying your year-around suntan.”
Beela continued to clasp Jas’s wrists. An awkward moment ticked by. Then she lifted a worshipful gaze to Jas’s hair. “Perfect. Black as the Maker’s heart.”
Jas snatched her hands away. “I beg your pardon?”
Beela blinked rapidly. She took several clumsy steps backward. “I’ll get the salve.”
Jas watched the tall woman hurry out of the chamber. Great. This was going to be one long evening, and she had no one to blame but herself. Since none of the others in the room appeared anxious to talk, she might as well view the artwork. If she was lucky, she’d find something other than the black hole, riveting as it was. Hands clasped behind her back, she wandered across the vast room. Beela’s “apprentices” parted for her like the Red Sea. They probably found her hair and skin color strange, too.
On impulse, Jas stepped into a corridor. The rock walls were bare of artwork. The passageway narrowed and led to another, which ended in a wide balcony overlooking the dark, unpopulated side of the mountains. The thick glass doors were sealed shut. “Open,” she commanded, just for fun. They remained tightly closed. Apprehension trickled along her spine, and she hastened back the way she’d come. She’d recalled passing at least two comm boxes earlier. If she could remember where one was, she’d call the Romjha. They owned a fleet of transports; surely they’d dispatch one to rescue a stranded guest. That way she wouldn’t inconvenience Beela. Although the woman meant well, she was growing spookier by the minute.
Mounted on the wall just to the right of the entrance to the main chamber was a comm box. Jas rummaged through her waist pouch for the comm card she’d purchased for routine calls. Instead her fingers closed around the wafer-thin metal card Rom had given her. She cradled it in her scraped palm, and her heart constricted. Call him. Yes, just to hear his voice, to say how much she looked forward to seeing him in a few hours. And to hear him laugh his head off when she told him how she’d gotten herself trapped for the evening in a compound full of loony artists. Grinning, she dropped the card into the slot.
As the machine flicked on, a breeze swept around her ankles, bringing with it a whiff of the incense she’d smelled just before the thieves grabbed her. She whirled around. A body slammed into her, knocking her off balance.
Jas tumbled across the polished stone floor, skidding on her rear end. Sprawled on her back, she gaped at Beela, who was shrieking, “Get the card out! Get the comm call!”
Chaos erupted in the chamber. Apprentices ran toward her from all directions. One dug Rom’s card out of the comm box. Jas tried to get up, but someone grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her painfully backward. Her numbness and disbelief transmuted to panic. She flailed wildly, trying to break free, but whoever had grabbed her hair now pinned her arms behind her back.
“I wish you had not tried to do that,” Beela said.
Wide-eyed in horror, Jas watched the woman walk toward her, a cloth clutched in her outstretched hand.