Brother Death by Steve Perry Page B

he told it. Of course, if the Zonn wanted their subject dead, no bioelectronic viral/molecular computer on wheels would be able to stop it. Still, it was built to try, and over the years Kifo had come to feel a certain kind of affection for the vouch, even though it was only a biomechanical and not truly alive. People could do that, anthropomorphize almost anything. Hello, vouch. And how are we today?
    A moment of humor to break the solemnity, that was good. Soon enough things would be a lot more serious.
    A guard approached.
    "The tourists and scientists have all left, Unique."
    "Good. Check once again and report back."
    The guard bowed slightly and hurried away. Kifo could have entered the chamber then, he knew. The guard would not have come had he not been sure of what he reported; still, there was no hurry. And though he was the highest of the chosen, the Unique of the Few, Kifo felt a tremor of fear dancing in him, slight, but there. He took a deep breath, let it escape, took another. It was not every day that a man spoke to the gods, and even though he knew in his heart and mind that he was a good servant, that in itself might not be enough. There were stories of those who had considered themselves worthy, who had been without apparent flaw, and who had displeased the Zonn in some manner when in Communion.
    Men whose minds had been snapped like twigs, who had been retrieved gibbering and totally insane, gone to a plane from which they never returned. Kifo thought he was pure enough, but who could say what a god thought?
    He hoped his fear was not so strong that it would shine through and cause him grief. But if it was the will of the Zonn that he be struck down, then so be it. He was a dog, and they were the masters, and that was as it should be.
    Like a man chosen to placate an angry volcano, Kifo sat next to the edge of his destiny. The guard would return soon, and whatever would be, would be.

Chapter TWELVE
    MIXED EMOTIONS DIDN'T even come close to describing how Taz felt as she dressed. She stared at her mirror. Her hair was too long; it needed to be trimmed. She hadn't been working out enough; she was getting soft. How had Ruul ever found her attractive? She was ugly, too tall, too much muscle, too hairy; Christo, she was a fucking warehouse on legs.
    The dark blue orthoskins, she decided. Dark would hide her better. And the new flexboots She blinked at her reflection. Dammit, woman, you're going to go tell the man to leave you alone, to quit calling you, to get on about his life and stay out of yours, not to knock him flat with your beauty. You shouldn't care a bug's ass what he thinks of what you look like!
    Shouldn't. No, you definitely shouldn't.
    Her reflection smirked at her. Uh-huh. And who do you think you're fooling here, Tazzimi Bork? Not me. Not for a Spandle second. I know what is in the drawer.
    Fuck you.
    It's in the drawer, right where you left it.
    Taz stared at the drawer on the left side of the dresser. To avoid thinking about what lay therein, she thought instead about the dresser, and how she had come by it.
    The dresser had been an extravagant purchase, she'd had it for years, ever since the first week she'd joined the peace force. It was carved of a dark red fruitwood called namna ya tundo dogo, which was a local variant of cherry, save that the fruit produced by the trees was blue-black and the size of small apples. She'd spotted it at an outdoor market in Mende Town, and an old man blotched with sunlight and age stood next to it, smoking a smelly pipe. There were dozens of other booths, but there was just the one piece and the old man-he had to be a hundred T.S., easy-in his stall, nothing more.
    After she'd paid her rent, she had all of three hundred stads left to her name, but she had a job and wanted to celebrate it. The dresser was low, had a mirror on the back, a slot for a chair, was rounded and polished to a dull shine, and she'd lusted after it on sight. It was the most beautiful