Omega Games by S. L. Viehl

transmitter are voice-activated,” Mercy continued, “and we’ll keep ours connected with yours. If anything happens, you only have to call out and Cat or I will be in here in two seconds.”
    “What could happen that I would need you so quickly?” I asked, and saw a flash of raw emotion pass over her face. Fear, and something like outrage. “Mercy?”
    “Nothing.” She handed me a stack of dark blue garments. “We look to be about the same size, so these should fit you. Get washed up and changed while I arrange our escort.”
    She left me in the room, and I made use of the cleansing unit before I put on the tunic and trousers she had given me. I decided to take the Lok-teel with me, in the event I needed to disguise my features again. After I tucked it under my tunic, I tidied my hair. Duncan preferred it down and loose, and often brushed it out himself in the evenings. Nerves and something else made me begin separating my hair into sections.
    Slowly, without any conscious intention on my part, my fingers did just that: They curled around the sections and wove them together, in and out of each other, turning all the loose hair into a cable. A brief search turned up some jeweled clips, which I used to secure the cable’s loops to the back of my head.
    Not a cable. A braid.
    I looked at my image in the reflecting plas above the vanity unit. I had been allowed to keep my long hair among the vral, as they feared me and the effects of my amnesia, but . . . I could not remember learning how to weave it like this.
    Iisleg women do not braid their hair. They cannot. They wear it too short. Dark blue eyes stared back at me, unblinking, unforgiving. I am not an Iisleg woman. I reached out to the plas, touching the slick surface with my fingertips. The woman on the other side did
    the same, but at the very last moment her hand became a fist and smashed into the plas, punching through it and reaching for my throat— “Cherijo?”
    I blinked, and the shattered plas became whole, and the woman inside it became my reflection again. Mercy came to stand behind me. She looked as angry as she had when I’d first arrived. “That stupid mule-headed hermit agreed to a meeting, but he wants to see only you. He’ll allow you to bring a drone escort for protection.”
    I noted her white lips and the hands curled tightly against her sides. “Protection from what?”
    “Posbret and every other credit-hungry raider on this rock, I suppose.” As she shrugged, her gaze dropped away from mine. “You ready?” I turned my back on the thing in the mirror. “Yes.” Four of Mercy’s drednocs escorted me out of the brothel and through the pressurized access ways that
    connected most of the colony. I argued against so many—surely one was more than enough—but she
    was adamant. “Drefan is being particularly unfriendly, even for him,” she told me. “I don’t know what he’s planning, but I want you back here as soon as possible. Husband or no husband. Or Cat and I are coming after you.”
    I thought the abrupt turnaround in her attitude toward me was rather touching. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay at Drefan’s dome? It would mean less trouble for you.”
    “You”—she poked her finger at my sternum— “are still in debt to me. You come back.” I suited up—another precaution that Mercy insisted on—and followed two of the drednocs into the long, transparent corridor of plas leading to Omega Dome. The other two battle drones followed me, the flickering lights from their chassis dancing across the convex interior of the access way.
    Mercy had programmed the drones to respond to my inquiries, so I asked, “How long will it take to reach Omega Dome?” “At current speed, one minute, forty-two seconds, ” the drone replied. As it did, the glowing halo of
    “What is the significance of your halo colors?”
    “This color indicates this unit is in standard operational mode.” The drone’s halo turned purple