THREE MONTHS later found me back in Nyssa. I’d been around the world in the meanwhile. I was quite proud of my ability to survive the rigors of low-living. Especially avoiding the press gangs. They were everywhere. It seems good old Mother Earth was running short of warm bodies to turn into combrids. The Hybrid Wars were going badly. The dog-eyed colonial vermin weren’t giving up their silly rebellions. You couldn’t divert too many criminals from the cyborg factories, or you wouldn’t have enough slave minds to run them.
So groups of entrepreneurs roamed the streets, grabbing pepheads or those overcome by mnemone fumes, and hauling them down to recruitment stations. Bartenders spiked both drinks and dope, for a percentage of the take. When business was slow the gangs grabbed even alert victims and gave them a shot of something to make them sleep. That was the beauty of free enterprise. Caveat emptor!
I’d learned a few tricks during my travels. I met lots of people willing to pay to see those tricks. Travel was a broadening experience.
But there was something about Nyssa that drew me back. Part of the attraction was the spaceport. The constant bustle was exciting. The crowds were easy for a twelve-year-old runaway to blend into. Pockets were easy to pick—off-worlders were naive. Perversions were easy to pander to.
Port of Nyssa was a collection of permaplastic spheres that lay beneath the icesea, clustered around the base of the gravchute like giant frog eggs. Huge pneumatic tubes snaked through dark water to connect the port to Nyssa proper. Nyssa was a duty-free port, so large numbers of shops catered to visiting off-worlders. There were also the usual amusements: mnemone dens, peptide parlors, orgasm emporia, casinos. Jaded tourists could purchase anything or anyone they desired. Everything had its price. Nothing was unavailable.
In short, Port of Nyssa was an ideal place for a street urchin to do a little hustling.
Which was exactly what I was doing. I’d pinched a bellhop’s uniform and was wandering around a hotel casino, carrying a silver tray with a folded sheet of gold foil imprinted with an impressive seal and reeking of pheromones. I didn’t bother to page a name; that way it would appear the person to whom I was delivering the message was known to me by sight—notoriety implied importance. That way, the bell captain was less likely to bother me. Wouldn’t want a V.I.P. not to get his message. Especially if it was from a sex-friend. Like I said, I’d learned a few tricks.
The casino’s floor was the inside surface of a hundred-meter sphere—a field of pseudo gravity created this orientation, in which gravitational vectors were centrifugal rather than centripetal. The floor was transparent—through its ten-centimeter thickness could be seen a myriad of marine creatures attached to the outer surface: kelp, anemones, shellfish, starfish, coral. Beyond, sharks cruised with mouths agape through dark, shimmering sea. Above, players stood around gaming tables, like flies hanging from the ceiling. Naked servants plied the guests, offering mnemone, peptides, and assorted alkaloids from trays. If chemical temptations failed, breasts would brush against backs, penises would be pressed against buttocks, tongues would lick what was proffered. The servants were well trained. Anything to distract a winner’s concentration.
Wheels spun. Dice rolled. LED’s flashed. Crystal facets glittered. Chips skittered. Tongues licked cracked lips. Sweat beaded on tense faces. Mnemone fumes rose to form a haze in the center of the sphere.
Business had been brisk. My pockets were crammed with chips and tokens I’d lifted from gamblers.
I should have taken my loot and run. I knew the key to success in either larceny or gambling was knowing how far you could push your luck. My luck was at its limit. I’d had a good take. I should have already been in a hotel room counting it. But something made me linger in the casino. There was a frantic energy in the air. I could almost smell it—like ozone from wires leaking electricity. And there was another energy below the first, something subliminal urging me to stay. I knew better, but I stayed anyway.
I looked straight up, across the casino, through blurring fumes. A crowd of people surrounded one of the craps tables, watching a shooter throw dice. Even the servants had abandoned their trays to watch. They sat on each other’s shoulders to get a better view, Most of the house dicks had also collected around the periphery—like the jackals they were, Each time the player rolled, a murmur came from the crowd. This would be the perfect time for me to leave unnoticed.
I started walking toward the door, meandering past gaming tables with their monomaniac players. I pretended to be looking for someone to give my message to—had to keep up my disguise. If I’d had more pockets, I could have cleaned up. But I restrained myself. Another minute and I’d have been out the door. Then all I’d have to do was find someone to cash in my chips for me. That would be easy. I could always have my way with certain ladies. They found me adorable.
Yet for all my good intentions, I didn’t leave then. Without realizing it, I had circled toward the crowd and now found myself mingling in its edges, slowly infiltrating deeper into its mass. I let myself be guided by this strange new volition. What the Memphis, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Soon I was squeezing between two women and pushing next to the dice table. The women glared angrily when I forced between them, but when they saw me they smiled and patted me on top of my head. I smiled back, resisting the urge to bite their fingers.
On the other side of the table, a player was throwing dice. He was a sailor—a hybrid bioformed to survive the hazards of deep-space sailing. He stood the standard two meters. His arms and legs were somewhat out of proportion in length, giving him a lean, angular appearance. Monomer sweat glistened from skin as black as obsidian with intra-dermal antiradiation granules. Nictitating membranes covered his eyes like silver monocles. His scalp was bald and convoluted into ridges by wires buried beneath the skin. It gleamed with conducting gel. He wore only a formal cape of spun gold—hybrids were proud of nakedness, having need for neither clothing nor modesty, An earring dangled from his left ear. The only other jewelry he wore was a platinum ring set with a stone I could not identify. A sonic knife in a sheath was strapped around his left thigh. Fingers and toes were long—each of their tips had a suction pad so the sailor could climb polished surfaces like a tree frog.
Now his fingers cradled a pair of crystal dice. He shook them in his hand and crooned to them as dice players had done for millennia. A huge stack of chips stood before him. He let them ride on his next throw. His hand went back, then forward. Diamond dice were flung into a field of pseudograv, where they were caught and held. They tumbled in midair. Tiny oscillators in the center of each die flip-flopped randomly between six choices. The dice stopped spinning. LED’s lighted up each facet: two on one, five on the other. Seven. A natural. The crowd murmured. The sailor grinned.
A croupier pushed neat stacks of chips across the table. With one hand the sailor added them to his other stacks of chips. With the other he gathered up his dice and shook them again. He bet all his chips. I did a quick mental calculation. There was at least a million in front of him.
I whispered to the woman standing next to me: “How long has he been letting them ride that way?”
She laughed. “For ninety-eight straight passes. All naturals. All the easy way. Quite incredible, really.” A pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. “They say he’s cleaned out a different casino each night for a week. Always shooting craps. Always throwing naturals. No one can figure out how he’s doing it.” Her eyes narrowed. “He’ll need someone to help spend it.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Corne with me, just in case. You can’t be sure. He might prefer boys.” She began elbowing her way around the table. I followed behind her.
The sailor brought his arm back again, shaking the dice in his hand. Light glittered off his stack of chips. There was a distant look in his eyes, a look I found disturbing.
He snapped his arm forward, throwing the dice. They ricocheted in midair, skittering into the crowd. Something was wrong. They were supposed to enter the pseudograv field of the table, not bounce off it. The field strength must have been increased. The croupier retrieved the dice and handed them to the sailor. He threw again. Again the dice skipped in midair above the table.
An uneasy murmur rose from the crowd. The croupier made an unobtrusive hand signal. Almost immediately the casino manager stood at his side. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as the sailor, but well built. Her hair was short and the color of wheat stubble. Her eyes were emerald. “There seems to be a malfunction with the table,” she said. Sonic earrings amplified her voice. “Technicians have already been summoned to repair it.” She smiled, nodding toward the sailor. “I’m afraid our lucky guest will have to take a break while the table is being repaired. Shouldn’t take too long.” Mirrored fingernails flashed as she waved her hands.
“There’s nothing wrong with the table,” the sailor said softly. The crowd quieted.
“Of course there is. You saw for yourself.”
“I saw what you wanted me to see.” There was something wrong with his voice. The same wrongness lay in his eyes. “You’re afraid I’m going to break this casino like I did the others. You turned up the field on the table. You want to check it out. Can’t figure out how I’m winning, can you? What’s the matter? Don’t you believe in luck? You’ll find nothing wrong with the table. Or the dice. I’m sure you’ve already looked me over with sensors. You can’t find any force generator on my person. Why don’t you save some time and turn the table back on so I can resume winning? My luck won’t last forever. Maybe I’ll lose on my next roll.”
The crowd muttered. They knew the sailor was right. They didn’t like having their fun interfered with. Most of them had been betting on the sailor.
“Nonsense,” the manager said. “A circuit’s shorted. Or a diode’s burned out. My technicians will have it fixed in no time. Meanwhile, here’s a chit for your present winnings and a room key, on the house, so you can refresh yourself while the table is being serviced.”
She tossed a platinum token and a sonic key to the sailor. He caught them both with one hand. Then he looked carefully at the manager. He suddenly seemed to recognize her. The chit he placed in his cape pocket. He threw the key back to the manager. “You’d like me to go to that room, wouldn’t you, Kramr? Make your job that much easier.” His lips were pulled tight across his teeth. “Are you sure you’ve got enough? Three is all? Not very good odds for the house. Besides, the other one is here too.” He seemed to look at me when he said that. I wondered what he meant,
Servants appeared, carrying trays loaded with intoxicants. They began plying the crowd, offering their wares. Soon laughter wafted from the crowd. It wasn’t long before they forgot the sailor.
The woman I was following had made her way to the sailor and now stood beside him. She put her arm around him, pressing her body close to his. He didn’t notice. He was examining the back of his hand, staring into his ring. She leaned close, whispering, and then stuck her tongue into his ear. He pushed her aside, as though she was just a minor irritation. He turned suddenly and bulled his way through the crowd. Clinging hands reached for him. He shook them off, revealing surprising strength in his lean frame. All eyes watched him,
That meant they weren’t watching me. It was time for me to make my move. Past time. I followed in the sailor’s wake, unnoticed. I slipped out the door of the casino without difficulty, ducked into a public toilet, and got rid of the bellhop uniform. I was safe. I should have holed up with my loot. But I didn’t.
Something still bothered me.
Something about the sailor.
When I came out of the restroom, I could still see him. He was just ahead, aimlessly walking down the street. He seemed to be muttering to himself. Every once in a while he would look at his ring. I could just glimpse his eyes then. A strange fire was reflected from their depths.
I followed him.
He was easy to trail. I could have tailed him for days. But it was so easy, I got sloppy. The next thing I knew, he was running and dodging down side corridors. All of a sudden, following him wasn’t so easy. Those damn hybrids were fast. The only thing that allowed me to keep pace was that it was easy for me to weave through the crowds. I’d had lots of practice doing that. I tried to keep him in sight, but he changed corridors enough to make it difficult. He steadily widened the gap between us. I didn’t think he was running away from me. That would be ludicrous. I was unarmed and alone. He could have broken my neck with one hand. Besides, he had a knife. I slowed down a little, thinking. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t sucked into a trap.
Far ahead, the sailor darted into another connecting corridor. By the time I reached it, he was nowhere to be seen. The corridor was deserted. A dozen others opened into it; the sailor could have ducked into any of them. He had given me the slip, all right. Then I paused. Sweat beaded along my spine. I smelled a trap. He was probably waiting for me, hiding in one of the corridors, ready to jump me from behind. If I was smart, I’d turn back. No sense taking needless chances. But then I wasn’t smart, was I?
I heard something that made me sweat even more—the soft hum of an open sonic knife. No, an ultrasonic harmony. More than one knife. That really made me think.
I slowly advanced, listening carefully, until I came to the opening from which the sound came. I peered in, ready to jump back. My heart beat like a trip-hammer. Blood roared in my ears. A short corridor lay before me, empty. Beyond, dim light flickered. Sound came from there also.
I crept along the corridor. It opened into a small park, complete with benches and foliage. Luminescent sea swirled against persplex overhead, flooding the chamber with flickering green light. The sailor stood in the center of the park, surrounded by three pepheads. Each held a sonic knife. Ultrasonic fire sang from crystalline blades,
Pepheads normally resorted to less violent types of crime to support their addiction. Mugging usually required too much energy. But it was known to happen. The three pepheads surrounding the sailor looked typical enough. They were thin and cachectic with bodies wasted from too many forgotten meals. Their faces were hollow and gaunt, with sunken eyes. Hair hung in scraggly patches from their heads. They appeared too frail to even protect themselves, much less attack someone else. Yet they seemed agile enough and were surprisingly quick. Must be hopped up on endocaine or endophetamine. Those peptides gave synthetic strength and courage.
The sailor was good. He seemed to anticipate his assailants’ thrusts, and easily parried them. But he was outnumbered. And surrounded. There was no escape. Just as there was no doubt what the outcome of the fight would be. But I had to admire his skill. It was like watching ballet. He leaped and twisted and turned, slashing with his knife, parrying the others’ blades with his wrist and ankle bands. I flashed to the halos of my childhood, of sailors fighting pirates hand to hand in the riggings of gravships. This was better. This was in person,
One of the pepheads slumped to the ground. His throat was slashed. The other pepheads and the sailor continued fighting. Their leaps and lunges slowly moved them away from me. Now was my chance to get the L.A. out.
I was about to leave, when I noticed something peculiar about the fallen pephead. I moved closer until I stood over him. My legs weakened; I sank to my knees. My stomach felt queasy.
He was changing! As I watched, the pephead was changing appearance. His face and body were fleshing out. He was dead. I was sure of that. But he was changing anyway. His skin lost its sallowness. Nose and ears became a little different. Dead eyes changed color. Soon I saw a face no one had seen for many years. I knew then he was dead. Only in death would that face be seen. You know as well as I what creatures fought the sailor. Not real pepheads. That was just a disguise to keep any witnesses from realizing who the attackers actually were. Quite simple, really. Chameleons could wear much more elaborate masks. They were quite sensitive about their anonymity.
But now I knew who they were, I knew what that meant. If I ran, they’d follow, as soon as they were finished with the sailor. The chameleons of the Intelligence Corps wouldn’t stop following me until they found me. I knew what would happen then. I didn’t need that kind of heat.
I had no choice. I mean, what else could I do?
The chameleon was still grasping his knife in his dead hand. I pried it from his fingers, then looked up. The sailor looked horrible, bleeding from numerous slashes. There was a stab wound in his belly—already his abdomen was becoming distended with bloated viscera. He still fought furiously, though. He was backed up against the persplex wall of the park. Phosphorescent bubbles streamed by on the other side, as bright as space dust. The two remaining pephead/chameleons closed for the kill. I would be next.
My heart beat out of control. Cold sweat ran under my arms. My vision blurred around the edges. But I knew what had to be done. And I’d seen enough holos to know how to do it.
I quickly ran across the park. Before the pepheads had a chance to turn, I slashed the closest one across his right side, below the ribs. My knife sliced deep, cutting both liver and kidney. Bright red blood splashed on the ground. He fell forward.
The other pephead glanced back to see what had happened. As he did, the sailor lunged with his blade, catching him under his chin. He fell backward, dead. It was not a peaceful death for either pephead. With death, the neural and hormonal energies maintaining their disguises relaxed. Their appearances reverted to true form—an unpleasant metamorphosis. Skin fibrillated as if worms were wiggling underneath. Muscles snapped against tendons. Bone grated and crunched as it was remodeled.
I looked away, having seen enough. The sailor had slumped against the wall. His knife lay beside him. He motioned me over. I kneeled beside him, leaning over to place my ear close to his lips.
He whispered: “Who are you?”
“I saw you in the casino.”
“But who are you?”
“No one. Nobody important.”
“Yes you are,” he said. He tried to laugh, but the sound bubbled in his throat. He coughed up a clot of blood. “Your face has haunted my dreams for a long time. I thought you would be my killer, not my rescuer. When I saw you following me, I knew my time had come. Just as the deathstone foretold. I knew when I saw your face that all my plots had been in vain.” He twisted his neck to look through the persplex wall. He tapped against it with his finger. “I thought this would be the wall of a dome in space. Somewhere on one of the outer moons. How was I to guess it was water swirling beyond and not liquid ammonia and methane? I came to Earth fleeing the vision of my death, not seeking it.” He took a deep breath. Bubbles gurgled in his chest. “Nels was right. I, too, should have become a mindrider and lost myself in the mind casinos of Chronus. Should have gotten rid of this body. It’ll never catch up to Nels. Nels is safe.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
“But I’ve never seen you before. How could you know me?”
“The stone showed me your face. No matter how hard you try you always succumb to the temptation to see your own death. I knew you’d also witness mine.”
I pointed to the dead chameleons, “Why were they after you? What did the spooks want?”
“The stone, of course. Kramr wants the stone.”
“The stone?”
He held out his hand. Light sparked from the gem in his ring. “Just a flawed chip of the real one,” he said. “A timestone.” Then he managed to laugh. “And a deathstone for sure.” He looked at me in a funny way, almost apologeticaIIy. “Here, you take it. The cycle must remain unbroken.” He slipped off the ring and pushed it into my hand. Then his body shook with paroxysms of cough. Red foam ran from his nostrils. He whispered again. I leaned closer, so I could hear. He was delirious, of course. His ravings made no sense, then. He told the whole story, though. Later I would put it all together. I’m corning to that part.
After he died, I slipped the sailor’s ring onto my finger. A strange warmth emanated from its gemstone. Then I took the casino chit from his cape and pocketed it. Money could do him no good now. It could do me a lot of good. I had plans. I also strapped on his knife sheath and slipped his blade into it. No cleaning was necessary. Blood didn’t stick to sonic blades. I was careful to wipe my fingerprints from the other knife handle.
As I was leaving, I looked at the chameleon I’d killed. He’d reverted to his true morphology. Quite ordinary, actually. Then it hit me. This was my first killing. I admired the wound I had made in the chameleon’s side. It had been easy. And the feeling wasn’t at all bad.
Then I got the Frisco out. Spooks didn’t like their kind being killed. I wanted to be far away when the bodies were discovered. A vendetta against me was not my idea of fun.
A week later I got pinched again. I’d made it back to Nyssa. I was picked up by a routine patrol. Fortunately, I’d cached my loot, all but the sailor’s ring. I was wearing it.
But I had the foresight to swallow it when they picked me up. I didn’t want to be traced back to him. No way! They didn’t connect me to either him or the dead chameleons. The dimwitted varks thought I was just a runaway. All they were looking for was the bribe they’d get for returning me to my parents. If they’d guessed the truth, they could have saved themselves a whole lot of trouble later on.
But they didn’t.
Guess the truth, I mean.