FREE ACTING TERRAN ENVOY F.A.T.E. Seetee is the most dangerous substance in the universe - bring it into contact with the most stable of normal material and it explodes with enormous energy and destruction. When Captain Kennedy and his crew, the top men of F.A.T.E. - Free Acting Terran Envoys - accidentally brush against some Seetee they not only thank their lucky stars for their escape, but realise it signals an emergency of the highest order. Because such a swarm as they have encountered could cause the destruction of an entire solar system. And thy have reason to believe it is directed at out Sun - including particularly the Earth!
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
111
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Samopolis was at carnival. Streamers of colored smoke coiled through the narrow streets tinting the air misted with scented
sprays: drifting bubbles burst at a touch to release showers of sparkles, chords of music, the sound of laughter, sobs, screams,
and yells of rage from collapsing membranes. Masked, caped, grotesque, the populace swung into the frenzy of the Third Day.
Two more and it would be over for another lustrum, and already hysteria was dying a little, exhaustion taking its toll. Soon
drugs would be used to flag fading energies, a hint of sadism enter the celebrations, ugly quarrels flare into being, and
the weapons everyone wore during this lawless time leap to hand to spout death and destruction.
But now all was jollity, men and women careless as to apparel, mingling freely with scaled and feathered creatures. Aliens
from other worlds were here to enjoy the spectacle and blended with local residents wearing costumes depicting the denizens
of a thousand planets, the animals from a thousand zoos.
In a café somber with shadows, a tiger spoke softly to a lamb.
He was a big man, wide shoulders accentuated by a flaring cape, the golden foil of his mask striped with jet, the slanted
eye-slits with lambent ruby. His voice was a feral purr.
‘Well, my friend? Can you deliver?’
The lamb shuddered. Tight curls and pointed ears rose above a protruding muzzle, the eyes widely innocent, nacre crossed with
pupils like slots.
‘No, not yet.’
‘When?’
‘I – I’m not sure.’
‘Your hesitate?’ The purr deepened a little, became tinged with menace. ‘You wish to cancel our bargain? Well, as you wish.
Naturally, you will repay the money I have already advanced.’
The lamb shuddered. A hand shaped like a hoof reached out for a glass, lifted to pour azure fluid into the mouth beneath the mask. Watching, Bran Garret felt nothing but contempt. Beneath
the tiger mask his face was seamed, deeply graven, the eyes hard, the mouth cruel. A tiger in more senses than one, he was
a beast of the civilized jungles ruthlessly hunting his prey.
Gently he said, ‘Of course, you have the money?’
Shen Engach reached again for the glass. He was sweating despite the cold breeze delivered by the unit set over the table.
Wildly he wondered how he had come to this – the bookish curator of the Institute to be in such company. And yet the man had
seemed so affable at first, so understanding. A student, he had claimed, interested in erotica – a lie of course, but Engach
had been too eager to accept his gifts and bribes, and once trapped, had listened too long.
I was a fool, he thought bleakly. His face should have warned me. Men who look like that aren’t interested in soft diversions. And now it’s a matter of deliver – or else. Deliver or pay – and I can’t pay.
‘You have a beautiful wife,’ purred the tiger. ‘Let us hope that she is understanding as well as lovely. Your employers too
– they surely will understand. A simple matter of human frailty. They could even be amused at the evidence. But, then, you
have considered that.’
The Board of Directors were harsh, grim, Puritanical. His wife Elenor – how could he possibly explain? She constantly demanded
luxuries – it was the price he paid for her companionship – yet she would be the first to condemn him. He reached again for
the wine.
‘The money,’ urged the tiger. ‘You have it?’
‘No. I –’
‘You want the soft things in life and none of the pain.’ The cloak lifted as wide shoulders rose in a shrug. ‘A natural desire,
my friend, but one difficult of achievement. Very difficult, and for you impossible. Must I point out the obvious? Disgrace,
ruin, the end of your career, your marriage. Who can tell what will happen during the next two days? The thrust of a blade,
the discharge of a gun –’
‘You would kill me?’
‘Not kill. Cripple perhaps, maim, leave you blind and broken – there is such a variety of choice. How much better to complete our bargain.’
‘I can’t. It isn’t possible.’ Glass made a faint chiming as Engach reached for the bottle and refilled the empty goblet. A
bubble drifted close and he lashed at it with petulant anger, cringing at the shriek of agony that reached his ears. ‘You
don’t understand. I can’t do it.’
‘You can. You must.’ This time the savage anger in the purring voice could not be mistaken. ‘A bargain was made my friend,
to which you will adhere. And what is it that I ask? Such a simple thing. A trifle. Not jewels or artifacts of worth, just
a notebook kept in the vaults.’
‘Hygen’s equations.’
‘Exactly. Who cares about them? Who would even guess they had been taken? Don’t forget the money you have already received
and the balance of four times as much to come. A lot of money, my friend. More than you could earn before the next festival.
Cash to buy the luxuries you crave, fabrics and adornments for your wife, rare perfumes – and the means of catering to your,
shall we say, peculiar diversions. The alternative?’ The purr became a snarl. ‘A living hell, my friend. A living hell.’
Shen Engach downed the last of the wine. There was no choice, he had tried and failed, and in failure was a sense of relief.
The thing begun in an idle moment weeks before was now to be finished. The tiger now had sprung, and Engach was helpless beneath
his claws.
Desperately he said, ‘I can’t do it alone. There are guards – I tried to tell you. Alarms also – the vault is sealed. I shall
need help.’
Bran Garrett had expected nothing else. Rising, he said. ‘You have it. Let us go.’
He led the way from the café, Engach tailing behind; a lambled to the slaughter, but of course Engach didn’t know that He
didn’t even suspect it when Garret shot down the guard who opened the door to admit them into the building. Garret used a tiny
weapon that jetted a thread of flame, the point of impact expanding into a crimson flower which burst into the heart.
Dazed, Engach stared at the corpse. ‘Why do that? It wasn’t necessary.’
‘The vault!’ Garret lifted his hand. ‘Quickly now.’
‘But –?’
‘He could have talked or given the alarm. Dead, he is harmless. The vault, you fool. Hurry!’
Things were lax during carnival, but men still stood at their stations and alarms could be answered. Wise men would take precautions
against a raid on the priceless treasure the Institute contained, and the directors were not fools. The engineers had constructed
the vault with thick doors, sealed with electronic devices, rigged with traps, and fed with numbing current. Garret watched
as the curator punched a series of buttons, waited, hit more, then drew a small lever, shrugging as the portal swung wide.
‘There it is. Photograph it and go.’
Engach sounded dazed, numbed by the rapid series of events that turned on him from a respected member of his community into
a criminal. And yet, he thought bleakly, there was still hope. He was masked and gloved, and with the guard dead there could
be no real proof as to his guilt. Once the thing had been done, and the vault resealed, only the dead man would remain to
tell what had happened. And if he too could be disposed of –
He frowned as Garret scooped up the book. It was thin, the cover worn, the leaves within dog-eared. The Hygen’s notebook contained
an involved set of mysterious equations that made no sense to all who had studied them. Why had they been locked away beneath
such safeguards? Why had they attracted the tiger?
Aren’t you going to copy it?’
‘No.’ The thin volume vanished beneath the cape.
‘Wait!’ Engach was trembling. ‘You can’t! You promised! They’ll know I had to be responsible –’
His words were cut off as the thread of fire touched him; he felt the impact of the tiny missile, the savage pain of its vented
energy. But Garret did not watch him die. He was running before the body touched the floor, cape swirling, eyes behind the
ruby lambency searching every inch of what lay ahead. They had been fast, but not fast enough. A uniformed figure raised a
weapon and shouted a command to halt. Like the others, he died. Garret sprang over the body, reached the door, and plunged into the night as a siren wailed behind the closing portals.
Pausing, he reversed his cloak, showing writhing green instead of gold and jet. The mask yielded beneath his hands to alter
shape and color. Swaying a little, a warted Vikalian joined the end of a line curving and prancing to the beat of a drum.
It was slight disguise, but men searching for a tiger would ignore anything else. Crouching, Garret lessened his height, one
shoulder lifted to give the appearance of a misinformed humanoid. The line passed a knot of guards, snarling their impatience
as they ran toward the Institute. A flier drifted close above, and Garret ignored it as he had the guards. As the line dissolved
he swayed down a narrow street, covered by a cloud of artificial fog, and dived down an alley.
In a room, three men were waiting.
One was an Artificer from Loran: squat, stunted, his skin like leather, the greenish epidermis blotched with inset metal plates,
the insignia and symbols of his rank. One was a Mystic from Chral: tall, thin, robed and hooded, bone-white face like a skull,
the eyes upslanting, flecked with motes of silver, the pupils horizontal in an iris of emerald. The third was a Chambodian:
tall, the nose prominent, hawklike, the eyes like those of the Mystic, slanted with horizontal pupils. The thin, claw-like
hands and wedge-shaped face betrayed his avian ancestry.
He said coldly, ‘Have you been successful?’
Garret removed his mask. ‘I have.’
‘You have the book. Good.’ The Artificer extended a hand. It held seven fingers tipped with blunted nails. ‘Let me see it.’
‘There was trouble,’ said Garret, ignoring the command. ‘Men died.’
‘Men are born to die.’ The deep, resonant voice of the Mystic seemed to fill the room, bouncing with dying echoes from the
grimed walls and cracked ceiling. ‘By so doing they fulfill the purpose of their existence. Only in death can the final answer
be found. How many died?’
Three.’
‘A cleansing, small but acceptable to the Grand Design.’
The Artificer said, again, ‘The book. I must see it, examine it. Quickly.’
‘First things first,’ said Garret easily. ‘There was talk of a reward. A price to be paid.’
‘As it will be – the Chambodian gestured toward a pile of notes set on the table – ‘once we are sure that the book is genuine.’
The thin voice grew hard. ‘Now, immediately, hand it over.’
The seven-fingered hand closed over it, another opened it as hooded eyes scanned the closely written pages it contained. From
a pouch the Artificer took a small instrument that he held close to the worn covers. Another received a f. . .
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