you're on Asgard. If you're lucky,
the peace-officers won't have left any recording devices behind to spy on this
conversation—and if you're really lucky, they won't take it seriously even if
they did—but if I were you, I'd stop talking about the possibility of your
starship opening fire. It isn't going to happen."
The silence that
descended then seemed very heavy indeed. It was as if the sleeping troopers had
stopped breathing—as if they were spellbound, waiting for the star-captain to
explode.
She didn't.
"Trooper Rousseau," she said. "This is a private conversation,
protected by military confidentiality. I'm just trying to impress upon you the
seriousness of our mission. We need that android dead—and when I say we, I mean the human race. I have to kill him—and you're right. I need you to tell
me how to do it, so I'm being extra nice to you. But if you don't start being a
lot more helpful, you have no idea of the depth of the trouble you'll be in. So
tell me— when
do we start?"
There are some
people you just can't argue with. Not all of them are Tetrax. I had already
started formulating a timetable in my head when I was interrupted by the trill
of the wallphone.
I leapt to my feet,
extremely grateful for the opportunity to get away from Susarma Lear, if only
for a moment. I tripped over three recumbent troopers on my way to the phone,
but I got there in the end.
My gratitude
drained away as soon as the caller's image appeared on the viewscreen. It was a
vormyran.
All vormyr look
alike to the inexpert human eye, but I didn't need three guesses to figure out
who this one was.
"Michael
Rousseau?" he inquired, in awkwardly broken parole. "My name is Amara
Guur. We need to talk."
13
Politeness required that I should switch on
the eye above my own phone so that Amara Guur could see me too, but I didn't
bother. I felt that I could happily live out my life without ever letting him
see my face.
"What do you
want?" I asked harshly.
He smiled. Unusual
for humanoids, the vormyr are a predatory species, irredeemably carnivorous.
I'd been told that they had very bad breath, and it was easy enough to imagine
that, even though I was only looking at a picture. Guur looked like a cross
between a wolf and a crocodile, slightly favouring the reptilian side of the
family. It wasn't a harmonious combination. His smile was unattractive in the
extreme.
"I'd like to
discuss some matters of mutual interest, if you're willing."
"I'm
not," I told him.
He didn't seem put
out.
"I can
understand that," he said. "It has come to my attention that you feel
that I am in some way responsible for your recent troubles. I can assure you
that I am not, but I should like to make a gesture of good will in any case—a
small gift, to assure you of my friendship. It cannot make up for your
unfortunate experience, of course, but I think you might be very glad to
receive it." His accent wasn't incomprehensible once I'd got used to it.
"I don't want
it," I said.
"I think that
you do," he retorted. "In any case, it belongs to you by reason of
both legal and moral entitlement—if, as I understand, you are the sole
beneficiary of Saul Lyndrach's will. Not that I had anything to do with his
unfortunate demise, of course—I have offered the peace- officers my full
co-operation in the matter of apprehending the homicidal giant."
"What the hell
are you talking about?" I demanded. I had to use the English word for
"hell," but he got my drift. He smiled again.
"It is a small
item that . . . happened to come into my possession." So saying, he lifted
something up to his phone's eye so that I could see it. It was a black-bound
notebook. It had to be Saul's log, containing his personal record of his last
trip. It had to contain the location of the doorway down to level
five—encrypted, I presumed. Obviously, Simeon Balidar hadn't been able to
decipher it, and Saul hadn't been willing to divulge the key even under extreme
pressure. Amara Guur
the peace-officers won't have left any recording devices behind to spy on this
conversation—and if you're really lucky, they won't take it seriously even if
they did—but if I were you, I'd stop talking about the possibility of your
starship opening fire. It isn't going to happen."
The silence that
descended then seemed very heavy indeed. It was as if the sleeping troopers had
stopped breathing—as if they were spellbound, waiting for the star-captain to
explode.
She didn't.
"Trooper Rousseau," she said. "This is a private conversation,
protected by military confidentiality. I'm just trying to impress upon you the
seriousness of our mission. We need that android dead—and when I say we, I mean the human race. I have to kill him—and you're right. I need you to tell
me how to do it, so I'm being extra nice to you. But if you don't start being a
lot more helpful, you have no idea of the depth of the trouble you'll be in. So
tell me— when
do we start?"
There are some
people you just can't argue with. Not all of them are Tetrax. I had already
started formulating a timetable in my head when I was interrupted by the trill
of the wallphone.
I leapt to my feet,
extremely grateful for the opportunity to get away from Susarma Lear, if only
for a moment. I tripped over three recumbent troopers on my way to the phone,
but I got there in the end.
My gratitude
drained away as soon as the caller's image appeared on the viewscreen. It was a
vormyran.
All vormyr look
alike to the inexpert human eye, but I didn't need three guesses to figure out
who this one was.
"Michael
Rousseau?" he inquired, in awkwardly broken parole. "My name is Amara
Guur. We need to talk."
13
Politeness required that I should switch on
the eye above my own phone so that Amara Guur could see me too, but I didn't
bother. I felt that I could happily live out my life without ever letting him
see my face.
"What do you
want?" I asked harshly.
He smiled. Unusual
for humanoids, the vormyr are a predatory species, irredeemably carnivorous.
I'd been told that they had very bad breath, and it was easy enough to imagine
that, even though I was only looking at a picture. Guur looked like a cross
between a wolf and a crocodile, slightly favouring the reptilian side of the
family. It wasn't a harmonious combination. His smile was unattractive in the
extreme.
"I'd like to
discuss some matters of mutual interest, if you're willing."
"I'm
not," I told him.
He didn't seem put
out.
"I can
understand that," he said. "It has come to my attention that you feel
that I am in some way responsible for your recent troubles. I can assure you
that I am not, but I should like to make a gesture of good will in any case—a
small gift, to assure you of my friendship. It cannot make up for your
unfortunate experience, of course, but I think you might be very glad to
receive it." His accent wasn't incomprehensible once I'd got used to it.
"I don't want
it," I said.
"I think that
you do," he retorted. "In any case, it belongs to you by reason of
both legal and moral entitlement—if, as I understand, you are the sole
beneficiary of Saul Lyndrach's will. Not that I had anything to do with his
unfortunate demise, of course—I have offered the peace- officers my full
co-operation in the matter of apprehending the homicidal giant."
"What the hell
are you talking about?" I demanded. I had to use the English word for
"hell," but he got my drift. He smiled again.
"It is a small
item that . . . happened to come into my possession." So saying, he lifted
something up to his phone's eye so that I could see it. It was a black-bound
notebook. It had to be Saul's log, containing his personal record of his last
trip. It had to contain the location of the doorway down to level
five—encrypted, I presumed. Obviously, Simeon Balidar hadn't been able to
decipher it, and Saul hadn't been willing to divulge the key even under extreme
pressure. Amara Guur
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