Be The Cat

By Bill Wolfe

A Mare Inebrium Story

Mare Inebrium Universe created by Dan Hollifield

 

 

 

…The Lair…

 

Lewgan was nervous.  It seemed, sometimes, that Lewgan was always nervous about something.   And the something was usually The Boss.  It isn’t easy being executive assistant to the most feared, despised and hated Crimelord on all of Bethdish.  But it paid well, very well. 

 

Lewgan straightened his lime-green tunic and tried to smooth his unruly hair as he checked-out his gaunt, ratty reflection in the elevator doors.  His palms were sweating again.  The Boss hated sweaty palms.  He hated them almost as much as he hated being disturbed at his ‘play.’   Lewgan had been forced to do it only once before and he’d found that no amount of alcohol could reduce the frequency or severity of the nightmares.  The Boss’s concept of recreational was.  .  .exotic.  Lewgan had been breaking the law since he was six years old but by all that is holy, some things are meant to be illegal.  In his own way, he prayed that The Boss was finished and the bodies removed by the time he was allowed entry.   If not, this time he swore he wouldn’t look any of them in the eyes.  It was the eyes that haunted him after the other images had begun to fade.  The eyes.

 

He tried to compose himself.  The elevator had sophisticated scanners and an impressive array of both defensive and offensive weaponry ranging from sleep gas to molecular destabilizers.  And Lewgan should know since he’d supervised most of the installation, personally.  But he had to keep telling himself that no technology could look into his heart and tell The Boss what he was feeling.  Not yet, at least.  He had often seen The Boss idly finger certain controls as he watched the approach of ‘visitors’ on the security monitors mounted throughout his sprawling complex.  He wondered if his own image—now wiping his palms on his jungle-green pantaloons for the fifth time—was displayed for The Boss on one of the many screens adorning the walls of the Playroom.  Was a jeweled finger even now hovering over one of the ‘Blue’ buttons?   The ‘Red?’  The shiver that ran up his spine had nothing to do with the temperature inside the elevator. 

 

Abruptly—for there were no displays in this car—the doors opened into a short hallway with a single, adamantium-reinforced door at the end.  Even Lewgan didn’t know if he were a mile below the City of Lights or atop one of The Boss’s several skyscrapers.  The elevator never felt like it moved at all and the duration of the ride always varied.  This trip had taken over twenty minutes.

 

“Welcome Lewgan,”  The Boss’s voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.  It was meant to be intimidating, Lewgan knew, but since he had also ordered the state-of-the-art equipment that made this possible, he was free to be intimidated by much more than mere parlor tricks. 

“Mr. Grym,”  Lewgan’s voice was steady, he knew what he had to do.  “I apologize for disturbing your.  .  .disturbing you at this hour but I have an unconfirmed—though reliable—report that your 500,000 credit  bounty is going to be claimed.”

 

Silence.  One of the reasons that Lewgan was valuable to The Boss was his innate sense of economy.  Oh, he could wax poetic when the need arose, and The Boss often depended upon him to grease the social wheels in gatherings as diverse as a Lights for Life benefit, which was THE charity in the City of Lights, or for a clandestine meeting of fellow Crimelords.  Whether it was a cabal of pornographers, street pushers or even an all-hands conclave of the Thieves Guild,  Lewgan could sway the group or—as much as possible—make them receptive to whatever scheme, offer, fiat or con The Boss was planning to introduce.  But when he wasn’t ‘on,’ Lewgan was brevity exemplified.  And The Boss despised having his time wasted.

 

In this case, Lewgan knew that The Boss would immediately grasp the magnitude of the tidings Lewgan was bearing.  This was not a conversation that The Boss would want transmitted on any circuit which could be compromised.  The Reever had technologies at his disposal that were hundreds of millions of years in the making.  Some of the gadgets utilized by the Immortals of Bethdish defied the best minds The Boss had been able to hire, blackmail or coerce into offering an opinion.  In short, The Boss was the boss still, because he strived to never underestimate his opponents. 

 

He didn’t know why it was so important, but he was acutely aware that The Boss really wanted a clandestine means into the Mare Tower.  A few months earlier, he had offered a 500,000 credit prize to any member of the Thieves Guild who could offer proof that they had successfully managed that feat.  The prize had remained unclaimed and the last Lewgan had heard, The Guild had cancelled its participation in the quest.  After many failures.  .  .eleven to be exact.  .  .it had been deemed impossible.  But it was axiomatic that the impossible was often merely a matter of perspective.

 

“Perhaps you should come in and discuss this, Lewgan,” The Boss sounded oddly contemplative and subdued.  “Third door on your left.  I will join you once I’ve freshened up, a bit.  Help yourself to a drink and for Machiavelli’s sake, man, dry your hands before you touch anything.”  The heavy door opened without a sound.

 

Lewgan expertly stifled a sigh of relief.  The Boss was finished with his ‘distractions.’  For tonight, anyway.  Third door on the left turned out to be a small room outfitted with a surprisingly well-stocked bar, a dataport and two chairs. 

 

“This arrived on my desk, this morning” Lewgan pulled a single image from a crystal he had already loaded into the dataport.  He began speaking as soon as Grym lowered his ample, powerful frame into the only chair in the room which would accommodate his bulk.  Freshly showered and wearing only a luxurious, soft and absorbent bathrobe, The Boss had entered the small room at a leisurely stroll, apparently his appetites had been sufficiently sated.  His leonine mane of hair was still slightly damp, though Lewgan thought he could smell the coppery odor of fresh blood.  To divert his mind from the implications of this line of thought, Lewgan noted that The Boss’s chins were fuller than usual.  He was overdue for one of his off-planet ‘Spa’ visits.  But that was one of the few areas where Lewgan was not authorized to make arrangements.  Every other year, or so, The Boss would leave Bethdish on his private yacht and return a month later at least a hundred pounds trimmer and brimming with vitality, vigor and—usually—boiling with new schemes.  The Boss always made these plans himself.  Lewgan had learned not to comment in any fashion concerning Grym’s  weight, health, or lack of it.

 

Displayed on the dataport was the image of a brightly-colored and intricately-molded ceramic vessel.  In several windows arranged top-to-bottom on the right side of the screen were various scanner images of the object.  Included were densitometer readings, elemental ratios, nuclear decay schemes and a pigment chart.  This was no simple photo, it was a detailed sensograph made on some very sophisticated equipment.  A few touches of the screen and anything from the crystal lattice structure of the glaze, to the strength of the gravitational field in which the ceramic was poured could be analyzed to almost endless detail.  “Beautiful,” Grym’s intense gaze was avarice incarnate.  “Please tell me what I am looking at, Mr. Lewgan.”

 

“This, sir, appears to be the Kkhresh’diak urn.  Are you familiar with the story?”  The Boss had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of anything from which he might turn a profit.  Priceless object d’art were well within The Boss’s field of interest, though Lewgan was aware that his employer’s classical education was sorely lacking.  And The Boss disliked having this paucity highlighted.  Lewgan always took Grym’s dislikes seriously.  That’s one of the reasons he was still alive. 

 

“Refresh my memory, Mr. Lewgan, if you please.  And feel free to freshen your drink after you have prepared one for me.”

 

Lewgan was no Max, but he did mix a mean Flotilla Surprise.  Perhaps it was another reason he was still breathing after working as Grym’s personal assistant for the past twelve years.  Most of his predecessors had lasted only months before they ‘retired.’  Lewgan’s first official duty in his current capacity had been disposing of the few remaining pieces of The Boss’s last assistant.  It had been light work.

 

“The Kkhresh’diak urn is considered THE finest example of D’rrish ancient funerary vessels.  It is one of a matched set containing the twin brains of the first D’rrish Emperor,  Kkranggch.  .  . Kkranggchi’ghaffni….uh.  .  .”  Lewgan glanced at Grym, who waved-off Lewgan’s failed attempt at pronouncing the primitive  D’rrish dialect.  It was probably impossible to do for any being who relied upon vocal chords, anyway, though Lewgan was sure he’d been close when he practiced it, earlier. 

 

“The name is loosely translated as: Immaculate Radiance of Peaceful Strength and Wise Use of Ignorance,”  Lewgan finished weakly.  “It was over a hundred thousand years old when it was brought to Bethdish by the D’rrish Ambassador Cach’.  .  .uh.  .  .at the opening ceremony for the first D’rrish embassy in the local year nine twenty, some five thousand, nine hundred and seven years ago.”  Unwilling to again fumble the harsh D’rrish nomenclature, Lewgan temporized.  “And it has been confirmed to have been on display on the 90th floor gallery of the Mare Tower two months ago at the reception thrown by the Immortals for the Shebeja Delegation to The City of Lights Council.”  Lewgan paused to let this information sink in.  “This scan was made two days ago and although we have yet to identify where, the background is certainly not in the Mare Tower.”

 

“One of a matched set, you say?” Grym’s eyes narrowed, suspecting treachery at every opportunity was one of his trademarks and had become second nature to him.  Survival in this line of work often depended upon a constant, healthy distrust of anything and anyone.  And Mr. Grym not only survived, he thrived.

 

“After extensive research by myself, your.  .  .connections.  .  .at the History and Art departments at the Collegium Lux and your best hackers,” Lewgan began. “We have reached a one hundred percent consensus that the other urn was stored in the fourteenth sub-basement of the D’rrish Royal Palace on their Homeworld on The Night The Stars Changed, seven hundred years ago.  It is in another galaxy, sir.   Our best estimates put Andromeda between two and two point two million light years away. I think we can assume that we are not dealing with the urn’s mate.” 

 

“And I presume that this object is now offered as proof that the security of the Mare Tower has been breached?”  The wheels in Grym’s mind were turning.  Not even Lewgan knew of his designs upon a certain room, a certain person who could often be found within the Tower, but Grym was willing to give up much that he had built during a surprisingly long lifetime of unceasing effort in order to achieve this goal.  It was the Crimelord’s most cherished, and secret, desire.  Absently, he wiped his damp palms on his soft, thick bathrobe.  It was an action that Lewgan had never seen from The Boss.  And it spoke volumes. 

 

“No doubt we will be contacted with terms,” Lewgan said.  “As of now, all we have is this data crystal.  The trail ends with an anonymous, cash-paying customer of indeterminate species or gender who dropped the package off at the courier service.  Coincidentally,”  his unruly eyebrows arched in sarcasm, “all accessible security cameras within three city blocks of the drop-off point experienced an unexplained malfunction for about fifteen minutes prior to and following the exchange.  There are still a few leads being followed by your.  .  .investigators.  .  .but there is little hope that we will be able to trace this individual or more likely, this group, any further.  Until they choose to make our acquaintance, of course.”

 

“Lewgan,”  The Boss’s voice was hard. “Let me make this perfectly clear.   Under  no circumstances are you to do anything to compromise this operation.  I want any efforts to uncover the identity of our successful thief to cease immediately.  Understand me, immediately.  We are going to play this straight and be prepared for any treachery.”  Grym was as adamant as Lewgan had ever seen.

 

 “My initial suspicion,” Grym continued,  “is that this is a sting operation masterminded by the Reever, or perhaps by The Collector, himself, which might mean that one of the previous attempts came closer to success than we realized.  Although this could be valuable information, I will allow for no error in this matter.  The bounty I offered was merely a taste of what I expect this matter to eventually cost, so there is no reason to attempt subterfuge in order to save a paltry few million credits.  If there is a chance that this offer is real, we must assure that we do nothing to risk spooking our thief back into obscurity.  Am I understood?”

 

“Perfectly, sir.”  Lewgan answered. “But with your approval, I am going to continue to try and ascertain whether there has, in fact, been a successful incursion into the Tower.  Our current intel indicates that Tower security remains heightened after the four, disparate periods of maximum activity intermittent over the last two weeks.  We have information from certain vendors that extensive repairs have been necessary in various parts of the building although there have been no reports of death or injury.  However, I have just recently discovered that shortly after the first suspected incursion into the tower, thirteen days ago, Doctor Mgshhabii, the chief veterinarian at the Zoological Gardens and Reserve was rushed to the Mare tower in the middle of the night and has yet to return either to his home or his work.  Third-party enquiries indicate that the Good Doctor is on ‘Sabbatical.’  Several lectures and teaching assignments have been put on indefinite hold.  No further information is available.” 

 

“By your leave, sir, I will also continue the research into the possibility that the second urn might possibly be unaccounted for or failing that, that the true Kkhresh’diak urn is indeed still in the Tower.”

 

“Surely you don’t suspect a fake, Mr. Lewgan?  The audacity of such an attempt.  .  .” Grym’s tone was almost respectful. 

 

“I suspect everything, Sir.”  The answer was not flip.

 

…The Scare…

 

In Max’s small, cluttered and cozy office in the Mare Inebrium, an incredibly ordinary looking human was tapping away intensely at a dataport.  Mr. Guiles Thornby was scrutinizing two snippets of the security recordings from the first of four recent attempts at breaching the supposedly impenetrable Mare Tower.  Not even the AI’s which controlled the bulk—but by no means all—of the intrusion countermeasures protecting the Tower could offer more than guesses as to whom, or what had  been attempting to gain access.  He was showing Max, the bartender at the Mare Inebrium, the first-floor bar, some of their best evidence in hopes that his vast experiences with diverse life forms could help them ascertain the nature of the threat.

 

The first recording showed nothing but a blank, stone wall which was obviously cut from solid bedrock.  It was the lowest level of the Tower’s substructure, the deepest of the Tower’s four sub-basements.  Max had spent a lot of time down there over the last few centuries.  He’d had three friends there, and only one was still alive after the first and ‘least determined’ break-in attempt.  And Fran, the Jubjub bird who liked to lick treats from Max’s outstretched hand, wasn’t expected to survive the night.   Max was eager to do all he could to help find out who was responsible for these attempts.  And if it was at all possible, he wanted to be there when the Reever caught up with whoever.  .  .or whatever did this to his pals.  There was a score to settle.

 

A shadow moved rapidly across the wall.  Max didn’t need computer enhancement to ascertain that it was that of Kukla in full charge.  Moments later, almost simultaneous with a horrid shriek which, fortunately, the security microphones had been inadequate to fully record, the broken body of a fully mature Bandershatch—furmious no more—slammed into that section of wall and slid to the floor, a crumpling bag of loose bones.  But Kukla—one of the three incredibly rare and semi-mythical guardians of the lower levels of the Tower—had gotten a piece of his adversary.  The only one of the three known to have done so.  That much was apparent from the recording.  What happened next, however, defied anything in Max’s direct experience.  .  .though he could swear that he had heard about something like this, before.  If only he could remember!

 

Snagged in one of Kukla’s fourteen inch, razor-sharp claws, was a steaming hunk of scaly flesh.  It was a pale, luminescent beige and dripping rich purple blood which burned holes in the stone floor wherever it spilled.  They could track the intruder from this point onward by the pockmarks in the floor and walls wherever it moved.  Then came the really strange part.  The gob of tissue lodged in the claw began to smoke and steam.  Distinct popping sounds could be heard over the receding din of battle between Ollie, the Jabberwock, which was by far the toughest and meanest of the guardians—though Max had found he liked to be scratched behind his fourth thoracic barb—and the intruder. 

 

Suddenly, the alien flesh erupted into a coherent cloud of vapor which hovered momentarily as it was joined by tiny wisps of vapor from other sources and then immediately moved, as if pulled by a ventilation shaft, straight down into the stone floor.  There was no evidence of any foreign tissue or fluids found by The Owner’s most high-tech scanners in spots where they knew both had once been.   Only the marks in the floor where the purple blood had eaten into the living rock. 

 

The cameras which should have seen the intruder would never transmit another image.  All the rad-hard and insulated circuits were irreparably fried the moment the intruder came into ‘view.’  However, cameras which were often closer, such as the one which had captured these horrid images, but which were not pointed in the direction of the intruder, remained completely unaffected by whatever destroyed the others.  All that was certain was that the intruder was considerably tougher than the guardians, and that unlike its opponents, it cast no shadow.  Again, there was no explanation, no good theories, and more than once the term ‘impossible’ had been bandied about by individuals for whom the word was customarily considered to be the last fallback of the incompetent. 

 

“Polios is understandably upset, Max,” Thornby said.  “The lower levels were supposed to be a safe haven for these rare and magnificent creatures.  Their value as a deterrent to entry to the Tower was merely an adjunct to his efforts to provide them shelter from a universe which no longer seemed to tolerate the presence of the truly exotic.  This was never meant to happen.”

 

Max gave Guiles a hard look.  He had always opposed putting Kukla, Fran and Ollie at risk by turning them into oversized guard dogs.  Albeit they comprised a force superior to many small armies.  And, of course, they worked for table scraps.  Max was not a happy fellow, not by a long shot.  “Show me the second clip again and pause it when the ‘head’ is most clearly defined.

 

With a touch of the screen, Guiles activated the short segment caught in the reflection on the surface of a children’s wading pool located in the 30th floor health club.  The fourth and—so far—final attempt had gotten this far but no more.  Each incursion had been more determined and more forceful than the last.  And each effort had been thwarted by one or another of the security measures installed by the individual who was referred to simply as The Collector,  The Owner, Mr. Grey, Polios (and a host of other names) and who had assured Max on more than one occasion were completely impenetrable.  An exhaustive survey of all valuable items in the building was underway, and so far nothing had been found to be missing.  But the task was monumental and far from complete. 

 

On the screen, the highly-enhanced image of a nondescript section of wall suddenly exploded inward as something crashed through, leaving a hole that was measured at over three meters wide but only a little over a meter in height.  Whatever went through—assuming it was upright as it attempted to escape the countermeasures which were even then converging on it’s position—was relatively short and squat in stature.  It wasn’t much, but it was evidence.

 

A coherent beam of light could be seen cutting through the hole the intruder had just made in the corridor wall and sweeping though the dust and falling debris until it struck an object—the intruder—where it was absorbed, apparently to no effect.  A second beam, thicker than the first and ochre in color, was fired from someplace behind the camera and also swung to impact at the same spot as the first.  The focal point seemed to dance and dodge, as if harried by a swarm of hornets. The enhanced image began to pick up a distortion in the atmosphere surrounding the intruder as superheated air mixed with moisture and dust to form a visible shroud.  A low-pitched moan became audible through the sound of crumbling stone and breaking plastiglass.  Whatever it was, it was hurting.  A thin smile graced Max’s otherwise focused countenance.  But it wasn’t a smile you’d like to see directed at you.  Believe it.

 

There was a Dopplered whine as an antigrav-mounted weapons bot shot past the camera at high speed.  It too began dancing about the focal point of the two beams—careful not to block either—and began firing coherent packets of magenta plasma at the intruder.  The moan intensified into a low-pitched scream as the combination of a mobile particle beam projector, wall-mounted molecular phase disruptors and the plasma cannon platform pounded away at the increasingly sluggish, though still moving, object.  Whatever it was was absorbing massive amounts of energy and at least some of that was being bled into realspace in the form of heat.  The very molecules in the air surrounding the intruder luminesced  as the ionic bonds holding them together absorbed quantum energies and then released them into space in the form of immeasurably tiny dots of visible light.  An image was beginning to form.

 

It had probably been an indistinct image, at best. The Owner’s AI’s had done a spectacular job of cleaning and enhancing the surface reflections from a small pool that was anything but remaining placid during the battle.  But the image—though vague—was clear enough to determine that the creature was bipedal, with incredibly broad shoulders and hips, arms long enough to drag the floor and a small, sloped head.  The figure dropped to its knees as its scream increased in both pitch and volume until it  became a piercing keen which stirred a sense of glorious exaltation deep within Max’s core.  This was a being that should suffer the torment being inflicted.  The emotion was an intensification of every feeling Max had ever experienced when he, of necessity or as an act of revenge, had become the sword of justice.   It was akin to the sensations he felt when he—personally—had the opportunity or responsibility to END someone or something which sorely needed annihilation.  He had felt this before but never had it been so real, so strong, so necessary.   

 

But it was the head which interested Max.  There was something familiar about its shape.  “Computer, freeze shot,” he spoke rapidly to the computer a moment before Guiles Thornby, who was ostensibly running the thing, had intended.   The head was not its clearest, quite yet. 

 

“Enhance and magnify grid two-one-one and advance in five millisecond increments for the next three seconds of the recording.  End command string,”  Max was surprisingly good with computers.  He’d had a lot of experience in his two million years of life.  As immortals go, he was a youngster and anyone can tell you that kids are great with computers.

 

So it surprised Thornby when with all the sophisticated hardware, software and wetware at his disposal, Max quickly opened a drawer and snatched-out a pencil and a pad of blank paper, real wood paper, medium bond, to be precise.  His eyes only occasionally flicking from the pad to the screen, Max began to sketch rapidly.  Slowly, the image of the intruder’s head on the screen coalesced into the clearest that it would ever get.  Max’s drawing, however, contained details based upon nothing but gut instinct.  Extrapolating from millions of years of experience looking into alien faces, Max discarded some irregularities as the vagaries of the digitized photographic media while he enhanced others because they ‘felt’ right. 

 

On the paper, the image began to resemble something living.  But it was a nightmare which should have ended at its birth.  Grotesque pustules swelled and burst from a scaly rictus of pain.  Fanged mouth open in silent torment, it looked not upward for deliverance, but down.  That’s why the head seemed so oddly shaped, Thornby thought.

 

But Max had somehow also picked-out two small, bony projections emanating from the creature’s forehead.  On the original image these discolorations had seemed to be eyes,  but now with the head bowed, Thornby could see how they might make sense.  The creature was on its knees with arms outstretched as punishing energies lashed it until the very fabric of space became suspect.  The creature had been detected when it triggered subetheric motion detectors, generally more prevalent on the upper floors of the building.  It had somehow been moving through gravity-stressed subspace when the first beam—the phase disruptor—reached in and stung it.  It had apparently learned from its first three attempts—when it had been driven off—that normal space was not a healthy place to be for an intruder in the Mare Tower. 

 

Max began sketching again, filling out a little here, erasing a curve there. 

 

Still staring at the image on the screen, though he had spent hours doing nothing else, Thronby broke the silence.  “So this is the thing that killed our guardians in the basement?  Maybe The Collector should add it to his bestiary on Sitmus V.” If it had been an attempt at humor, it failed. 

 

Max’s features were grim.  “Living things should never be part of any collection, Guiles, and HE knows exactly how I feel concerning the subject.  We disagree.  Big deal, I would probably hate living in a universe where nobody ever disagreed with me.  But dammit, those three creatures were more noble, more thoughtful and frankly, better people than most people I know and I may never forgive Grey for what has happened.  But I sincerely believe that he thought that they were quite safe where they were. 

 

“But mistakes that cost others dearly are the kind that we all have to live with in our own way,” Thornby replied.  “These are the kinds of mistakes we have both made, Max.  I live with my past mistakes every day but unlike you, at least I’ll get to die --eventually.   Kukla, Fran and Ollie have really only paid part of the price for this.  Polios must wrestle his personal demons in his own way, as all men of conscience must.”

 

“Interesting choice of metaphor, Guiles,” Max said as he added a few finishing touches to his sketch.  He flipped the pad and tossed it on the desk in front of Thornby.  “Have you ever been tested for innate psychic Talent?’

 

There on the page was a masterfully rendered, intricately detailed and artistically perfect drawing.  The face showed incredible pain and a sense of abject bewilderment mingled with desperate fear.  As a work of art, it was breathtaking.  But you wouldn’t call it beautiful.  No, the word you would strive for might be damnable, for damnation was written plainly in every line.  Each little shading or suggestion of depth was a reminder that evil has substance, a place in this universe.  It was the tortured face of a demon.  An actual demon straight from Hell.  And it seemed that this one had set its sights on the Mare Tower.

 

“I think we might be in real trouble, here, Guiles,” Max said.  “Any idea what our boss might have collected, lately, that might have drawn this kind of heat?”

 

…The Dare…

 

Lewgan barely had time to marshal his thoughts before The Boss answered his page.  The message: “Our seller has made contact,” was innocuous enough to risk sending over merely encrypted networks.  When Grym’s visage appeared on Lewgan’s screen, The Boss raised his left eyebrow marginally.  This was a signal to Lewgan that the line wasn’t trustworthy and that nothing incriminating would be tolerated.  Finding a more secure line would have taken only minutes but apparently The Boss was anxious for any news.  It had been three days since their discussion in the Playroom.

 

“You have information for me, Mr. Lewgan?”  The Boss’s tone and manner were brisk, professional.  Nothing suspicious here, officer.  Just a business call.

 

“Yes sir, Mr. Grym,” Lewgan had played this game for far higher stakes and was not at all nervous.  He too, was a professional.  “We received more documentation as to the nature of the goods and so far they seem to be of excellent quality.”  So far, so good.  “However, sir, there seems to be some question as to the previously discussed price.”

 

“Shocking,” The Boss seemed honestly amused by this detail.  There had been occasions where The Boss had been inclined to ‘make an example’ of certain underlings over amounts which wouldn’t buy a decent Corrillian Cocktail (the one with the real rooster feather floating midway in the glass) at the Mare Inebrium.  “The price discussed was always simply a starting point, Lewgan, please feel free to negotiate in good faith up to any amount you deem necessary.  Is there anything else?”

 

“I apologize for the misunderstanding, sir,”  which was code for: ‘Something is really strange with the deal.’  “But I’m afraid the seller claims that the merchandise is not the issue, there is an extra cost to the  procurement  process which must be addressed.  The price quoted for that.  .  .documentation.  .  .is quite beyond my ability to authorize.”

 

“I see,” answered Grym, though it was apparent that he did not.  “Perhaps I should meet with our seller, personally.  Do you think that might be arranged?”  Normally, this was supposed to be interpreted as a threat.  Grym almost never—anymore, anyway—sullied his exquisitely manicured hands by dealing with common rabble.  That’s what underlings were for.  He was unprepared for Lewgan’s terse reply.

 

“She insists upon meeting you personally, sir.” Lewgan was as bewildered as his boss.  “It is an unimpeachable requisite of the price.” 

 

Grym was startled, but only momentarily.  “Make the arrangements, Mr. Lewgan.  You know my schedule.  Oh, and please make quite certain that our meeting is absolutely private.  In these uncertain times, there is no such thing as being too careful.  Am I understood?”

 

“Perfectly, sir.  I’ll get right on it.”  Lewgan was beginning to have some serious doubts about this whole affair.  He was confident that with a modicum of effort, he could identify the woman who had contacted him, earlier.  She had taken some impressive precautions to disguise her identity and location but this time she wasn’t going to be just some anonymous customer at a courier service, she had called Lewgan’s office, directly.  But The Boss had been quite clear that there were to be no efforts to track her down and Lewgan hadn’t survived this long by disobeying direct orders.  He hoped she didn’t balk at the security precautions he was going to have to take.  Lewgan was good, but if the woman on the vid was an agent of The Collector, or worse yet, the Reever, he might just be up against more than he could handle.  He wondered if this would be a good time to update his escape plan.  .  .or perhaps his will.

 

…The Prayer…

 

Thornby was a patient man.  He truly was.  But if this squirrelly cleric didn’t stop muttering to himself soon.  .  .

 

“Yes yes YES!”  three times, in rapid succession.  Bony knees on hard rock,  Brother Chucky scrabbled about sniffing at the scattered pockmarks left at the site of battle between Kukla and the intruder.  Guiles Thornby still refused to believe the Demon Theory.  .  .as it had come to be called.  But The Owner had different ideas.  He was pulling out all the stops in trying to prevent another such incursion.  Guiles knew his employer had an affinity for unearthing arcane and weird things, but he wondered where the boss dug up this strange specimen. 

 

“You there,” Brother Chucky was jabbing his long and surprisingly delicate—and dirty—index finger in Guiles’s general direction.  “My case, bring me my case, my case, MY CASE!”  This staccato repetitiveness was one of the monk’s more annoying quirks.  “Hurry man!  Before the ectoplasm evaporates completely.   Hurry hurry HURRY!”

 

With a sigh and a shrug, Guiles strolled over to the large portmanteau that the little man had insisted must be lugged all the way down here to the lowest levels.   I take it back,  he thought.  I liked it better when he was only talking to himself.

 

That evening, snuggly ensconced in one of The Owner’s private meeting rooms on the 99th floor of the Mare Tower, Guiles was still annoyed.  But at least this time he had company.  Max, The Reever and via  commlink, The Owner himself were there to share the burden.  Of them all, only Max seemed to enjoy the so-called, “Demonologist’s” company.  But Max could get along with anyone.  It was one of the reasons that he just might be the Omniverse’s best bartender.  

 

“So what you’re saying,” Max interjected when the Mad Monk paused for a breath, which he seemed to do so infrequently as to make one wonder whether some of his foibles might be due to oxygen deprivation to the brain.  “Is that just because God knows what we are going to do before we do it, he doesn’t actually ‘make’ us do bad things.  Even though he ‘made’ the universe, and us, and is responsible for everything being the way it is, we are still personally responsible for our own actions.   Am I close?” Max seemed to be enjoying this futile dogmatic exercise while they awaited the delivery of a data crystal which Brother Chucky’s acolyte was editing at this very moment. 

 

“Oh yes oh yes OH YES!”  the anorexically-thin (“Can’t eat that!! No no NO!  It’s holy month, I must fast!   Just bring me some bread and water, please.  Just bread bread BREAD!”) humanoid with an intensity which included spilling some very old Dricorian Merlot on the leather armrest and thick rugs appointing the meeting room.  Apparently, his fasting didn’t preclude a little fruit of the vine after a long day chasing the denizens of the underworld.  Though he had so far managed to empty two glasses, how much actually made it into his carbohydrate-starved tissues was open to debate.  “Free will is YOURS, Max.  God gives directions but he doesn’t actually pilot the ship!  The ship the ship THE SHIP!”

 

It seemed an eternity, though it was Max who was taking all the heat, before a muted chime announced that the data crystal had been sent up from the media center on the fourteenth floor.  Brother Chucky’s acolyte—Guiles couldn’t remember his name, just now—had been enraptured by the state-of-the-art equipment available to him.  He had almost pleaded permission to ‘do this presentation up right,’ apparently with sound effects, background music and multispecies subtitles.  Brother Chucky had started out quite stern, but had finally relented and allowed his assistant to stay and play to his heart’s content after he had cobbled together a visual record of the salient points concerning this day’s ‘investigations.’

 

The acolyte may have been an aspiring Rodenberry in sack cloth, but he knew his stuff.  The visual presentation had been masterfully blended to remove all the drudgery, trundling back and forth and scrabbling about on the floor.  He’d even had enough sense NOT to show the time Brother Chucky tried to stick his tongue into one of the deeper blood/acid burns and had managed only to bloody his own nose in the process.  Evil has a taste!  Oh yes, a taste a taste A TASTE!  Today’s events seemed almost orderly, professional and even a bit scientific.   Unless you’d been there, of course. 

 

Brother Chucky somehow managed not to empty his glass onto the rug as he jumped up and dashed to the dataport once the crystal had been loaded.  “Have you got the image there, Mr. Grey?”  he asked, though he didn’t really pause long enough for an answer before he plowed ahead.  “Max, you have a real future in the clergy if you ever want to give up this bartending sideline.   You do you do YOU DO!” 

 

“I’ll keep it in mind, Brother.”  And if Max was joking, it didn’t show.  

 

“Before I get started, please let me assure you that the situation is not without hope and to relieve one of your worries,” Brother Chucky smiled, as if he were delivering the best news possible.  “This was definitely not human.”

 

If he had been about to repeat himself, he never got the chance.  The Reever nearly choked himself with the severity of his dismissive snort.  “Polios! Are you wasting my time with this maniac?”  he called.  “Isn’t human?  Did somebody even try to claim this was a human?”  The Reever made as if to stand when the frail cleric stopped him cold.  It was a sight to see as the little man stalked up to what is possibly the most dangerous humanoid in existence and transfixed him, both with his long, but considerably cleaner, finger and with the vehemence of his voice. 

 

“You!”

 

“Immortal!”

 

And Brother Chucky suddenly became Saint George, facing a dragon with nothing but a toothpick and his faith.  “You should get down on your knees and thank Antuth!  Thank Antuth and every God Who ever walked the holy streets of Albion that this was NOT a human demon that slew your blessed beasts and invaded this very edifice!   If it were you would all be doomed.   Doomed Doomed DOOMED!” 

 

The Reever had only two choices.  He could push the Passionate Preacher aside or fall back into his chair.  He chose the latter.  But nobody in the room was fooled into thinking that the Reever had retreated for any reason beyond the fact that this strange character might actually be of some help.  “I apologize, Brother Chucky.  I misunderstood you.   It won’t happen again, I assure you. Please continue.”

 

It was the right thing to do, but whom among us are big enough to have done it with such grace and immediacy? 

 

“A human demon—that is, a demon conforming to the human mythos—would never give up.   Never never NEVER!”  Brother Chucky shot the Reever a withering glance as he finally condescended to explain himself clearly.  “Once a human demon signs a contract, it WILL be fulfilled.   Even if the eternally damned creature is killed in the attempt, and it has happened, you know, another demon will simply take his place.   And another, only each is more powerful than the last.  It is their very nature to never give up and the prize, the soul of the poor, suffering child of God, is more valuable to their Unholy Master than a whole host of his minions.  But there is hope, I tell you.  Hope hope HOPE!” 

 

Polios took advantage of the slight pause created when Brother Chucky decided to finish the dregs of his glass.  “So the demons found in other mythologies are real?” 

 

“Oh yes oh yes OH YES! Very real, indeed.  As a matter of fact, as far as we know, all of them are real, to one extent or another.  As long as the sentient beings who created them believed.  I suspect you Immortals know as much about how that works as anyone, hey hey HEY?”

 

Max and the Reever exchanged a quick glance but said nothing.  There were things that you just don’t discuss outside the family. 

 

“Nevertheless,” the Beneficent Brother continued.  “The Mare Tower was invaded by a very real demon and if God’s plan is for it to return, it will eventually succeed.  There is nothing any of us can do to stop it.  In each incursion it will learn more and more about your defenses, and each failure will only strengthen its resolve.  So far, your defensive measures have thwarted its efforts.  His physical efforts are only a small portion of this creature’s capabilities.  Demons have access to incredible power, and not all of it can be affected by even the technologies of the Immortals or the Magics of your Sorcerers, Mr. Grey.  This Demon, or one of his successors will  triumph over your efforts in the end.  But I do know of certain blessings, icons, artifacts and prayers which will make it pay for the privilege.  Pay pay PAY!”

 

“If we are powerless to stop it,” Guiles spoke for the first time since the meeting began.  “Then how can you say that we have hope have hope HAVE HOPE?”  He hadn’t intended to mimic the cleric’s odd speech pattern when he’d begun his question,  but sometimes his mouth just got the better of him.  He knew he ought to apologize, but hey, he was no Reever.  And he never claimed to be. 

 

If Brother Chucky noticed Thornby’s mockery, he dismissed it.  “Because the Holy Water turned blue, of course.  Didn’t I mention that?  Blue blue BLUE!  Isn’t that wonderful?”  He hurried over to the dataport and selected an image from the menu.  On the screen, a strangely silent—though his lips were plainly moving—Brother Chucky selected a small vial of clear liquid from a scattered and disorganized pile of interesting objects and jerked the cap off.  Apparently, his propensity for spillage was not restricted to thousand-credit-a-bottle Merlot.  He slopped the contents into one of the larger holes in the rock.  The intruder had paused here after poor Kukla had extracted his final pound of flesh and the vitriolic substance had chewed deeply into the earth.  The acolyte had known to zoom in for a clear shot of the few drops that managed to find their way to the very bottom of the miniature pit and there was an instantaneous blue flash clearly visible from one of the droplets.  It dissipated quickly.  None of the other splashes reacted in any way.  Thornby had no explanation for this.  The Owner’s best scanners had detected no residue of any kind in any of the places where the intruder’s blood had destroyed the rock. 

 

“You see?”  he shouted to everyone and no one.  “I don’t need a spectrochromatograph to tell me that was blue!”  He looked about at the blank faces staring back at him.  “That water was blessed by the Virtual Pope, himself!  On Earth!  In Rome in Rome IN ROME!” 

 

“And the residual ectoplasm glowed blue,” Max finished, calmly.  “Which means that it was a Demon from a mythology where the rules are different?  So this demon doesn’t have to fulfill its contract?  The contract can be broken?  It has a choice?” 

 

“A choice a choice A CHOICE?  Never!” The Flaky Friar had been beaming at Max as if he were the star pupil in a spelling bee until Max’s final question.  Brother Chucky’s disappointment was plain as he carefully explained the facts of life to his bumbling student. “Demons have no choices, Max.  They are not Children of God.  No free will to exercise and no soul to loose.  But the contract can be broken.  Oh yes oh yes OH YES!” 

 

And with a beneficent smile, he offered them their only hope.  “We merely have to find the Dahlian who made this unholy pact and instruct her how to break it before she is lost.  We can save her soul her soul HER SOUL!”

 

“A Dahlian?  Her?”  The Reever bounded to his feet and advanced on the Frail Friar.  “Which Dahlian?  Who?  How do you know it’s a ‘she?’  What else do you know and why haven’t you told us until now?”

 

The Stuttering Supplicant scuttled back from the Reever’s wrath.  “But I DID tell you!  You saw it yourself on the screen!  The color was BLUE!  It was BLUE!   It was.  .  .weren’t you paying ATTENTION?”

 

Perhaps Brother Chucky would have repeated the word, perhaps not.  The Reever had moved with lighting speed and astounding grace as he reached forward to snatch the collar of the plain brown robe with his index finger.  And using only that connection, had lifted the emaciated cleric over a foot off the floor until the two men were, quite literally, nose to nose.  Not a centimeter of space separated them.  “We have wasted hours you old fool!”  There was no mistaking the menace implicit in each of the Chief Justicar’s words.  “Now you will tell us everything we need to know in order to locate this woman and under no circumstances will you repeat the same word twice!  Nod exactly once if you understand me.”

 

It had been a long time since Guiles Thornby had been truly shocked.  Oh, it wasn’t the Reever’s actions that he found so disturbing.  The skinny little twit, though he seemed to know his stuff, had it coming.  Lives were at stake here and his delay constituted an intolerable waste of that most precious of commodities:  time.  The problem was that from his vantage point, sitting in the most comfortable chair in the room, he no longer had to wonder what Demonologist monks wore beneath their robes.  Guiles needed another drink.  Right away.

 

 

…The Care…

 

Once again, Lewgan was nervous.  It was his job to bring the Seller, a Dahlian woman, and The Boss together while maintaining a veil of absolute security.  He felt like an overpriced pimp.  The mysterious Seller had passed phases one through four of the security measures and so far, all seemed to be going well.  There were just so many ways that this deal could go wrong.  If this was a set up by The Reever,  it was improbable that Lewgan’s security efforts would be sufficient.  It would be up to Lewgan to make the final decision as to whether Mr. Grym would be exposed to any threat, whatsoever.  Perhaps Lewgan could not be held accountable for his inability to thwart the Reever’s technology, but he would be expected to sniff out the scam.  And all good sting operations were, at heart, merely another confidence game. 

 

It occurred to him that perhaps he should just call off the meet and blame an inexplicable feeling in his gut.  Grym was intelligent enough to recognize that there were some suspicions that simply could not be quantified.  But Lewgan just didn’t get the sense that this deal represented any danger to The Boss.  For some reason, his intestinal early warning system told him that this offer was legitimate.  .  .even though it was obviously a scam.  And The Boss knew it, too.  But he had given the go-ahead for the meeting, anyway.  Was Grym’s obsession with the Mare Tower clouding his judgment?  Was he loosing his edge?  Lewgan had seen more than one criminal genius fall due to one simple mistake.  And it seemed they always managed to take their closest companions in crime down with them.  Ah well, his fortunes had bee tied to The Boss’s for over a decade and so far, their combined instincts had yet to fail. 

 

The plans had been laid with utmost care but the most telling test was yet to come.  It was often the case that the low-tech approach was the best.  The seller had been stripped and bathed with UV, EMP and a mildly toxic industrial solvent before she was allowed a high pressure shower with scented water.  Continuous scans had confirmed that she was carrying nothing but a single data crystal.  The crystal was of simple manufacture and had very limited capabilities.  Though the information was encrypted, it was only information.  So far so good.

 

And while doubles were a common ploy for shaking a tail, Lewgan was about to go one further.  The Seller would be told that her security ordeal was over and that Mr. Grym would meet with her shortly.  Grym’s Double—a veteran of multiple plastic surgeries and a highly-valued asset—would soon meet with the female Dahlian to discuss terms.  He had been given instructions to say something which would seem to be highly incriminating and that no law enforcement official would be able to resist.  Before any specifics were discussed, an emergency page was to interrupt the meeting calling ‘Mr. Grym’ away. 

 

If it was a sting, that’s when the authorities would make their move and if the Seller was being honest, she might never suspect that she had been dealing with an imposter on the earlier occasion.  The true Mr. Grym, of course, would be safely across town at the time with an unbreakable—because it was real—alibi.  An unexpected visit to the Mare Inebrium, was Lewgan’s suggestion.  Therein could be found scanners and witnesses that even the Reever would have to take seriously. 

 

And speaking of the Reever, seems he had been discretely turning the City of Lights, the colonies, the resort and even the off-world settlements upside down for days looking for and questioning every Dahlian of the female persuasion to be found.  There had been no public release of information, of course, but Mr. Grym’s sources were diverse, to say the least.  There were quality reports that some of the detainees had been interviewed by an very odd individual, indeed.  Lewgan had been unable to determine this fellow’s expertise, but reliable information insisted that he had a most annoying personal habit.  It seems he has a tendency to repeat himself.  

 

Lewgan’s pager beeped twice, the signal that the Seller had passed all scans, was not being followed and was ready for the meeting with Grym’s Double.   Lewgan sent the prearranged response code giving the go-ahead.  He also sent a code through a much more circuitous route which would inform Mr. Grym that it was time to make his way to the Mare Inebrium to establish his alibi.   There was still time to abort if anything went wrong but everything was proceeding as planned.  But Lewgan still knew that this was a con.  He just hadn’t yet been able to figure out how.  And more importantly, why?  It couldn’t be for anything as trivial as money.  Nobody would ever try to take The Boss for mere credits, would they? 

 

No.  Not after the example Grym had made of poor little Sa’ Kringe.  Who would have imagined that even a Tash K’Net—tough as they were—could survive being dipped in molten gold?  The value of the precious metal which clung to every skin surface and filled every available orifice had been exactly equal to what he had tried to swindle out of The Boss.  Lewgan had actually seen Sa’ Kringe hobbling about the old section of town only a few weeks earlier.  He had apparently, long ago, painfully peeled away the last of the gold to trade for food and shelter and was currently begging for alms.  Few knew that Sa’ Kringe was living proof that when The Boss’s plans don’t work the way he intends, it’s because they work better. 

 

 So try as he may, Lewgan could find no legitimate reason not to go ahead with the meeting.  All his instincts told him that the Double’s little performance would trigger no raid by the Reever’s forces.   And more importantly, The Boss wanted this meeting to take place too badly for Lewgan to risk his wrath for anything less than  absolute proof that the Seller’s offer was a ruse.  He still had a few feelers out trying to ascertain if the Kkhresh’diak urn was still within the Mare Tower but so far had nothing to show for his efforts.  It was nearly impossible to get anything from the Tower.  Information included.

 

 

…The Mare…

 

            Max couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  Grym himself had just strolled through the swinging doors at the main entrance to the Mare Inebrium.  Accompanied only by a single, unarmed bodyguard and wearing a jovial expression he meandered through the room, stopping to gaze at the curiosities decorating the walls and alcoves of the main bar.  He seemed especially entranced by a crude, inactivated robot which only had wheels with which to get around.  It’s two flexihose arms ended in c-shaped pinchers and its head was a clear glass disk with little whirligigs inside.  Nobody had ever been able to determine it’s utility.  Absently, Max noted that Bruce, the bouncer, had dismissed Grym’s muscle man with barely a glance.  But there were others in the room who seemed suddenly considerably more agitated. 

 

            Several of the diverse clientele seemed transfixed, undecided whether to bolt for the door or hunch over their drinks in a vain attempt to disappear.  Some, no doubt, were tempted to rise and greet the man who was either their unofficial employer, their nemesis or their competitor.  And for many, these distinctions were vague, at best.  Max knew of at least one patron present with whom the Crimelord would very much like to ‘discuss’ a certain matter concerning the disappearance of a shipment of hybrid poppies.  But Grym didn’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular.   And besides, there was no way he would ever try anything in the Mare.  Not only was it not Grym’s style, it was also quite stupid.  And that is one of the few detrimental epithets that had never been applied to Grym.  Never.

 

            But there were others for whom Grym’s sudden appearance held no particular threat.  Kazsh-ak Teir, the D’rrish ambassador and a regular at the Mare,  interrupted his own story—an entertaining,  if highly improbable, tale concerning a Thaxiconian farmer with three attractive grublings and the traveling uranium merchant who needed a place to molt—and immediately began easing his two-ton scorpioid bulk through the sparse group that had gathered to listen to his discourse.  In fact, there were few in the place who hadn’t yet heard this one, it was one of the D’rrish’s favorites.  But this time the punch line:  “Your mother mates out of season, too?”  would just have to wait.

 

            “Pardon me, please.  Coming through.  Please excuse me.  So sorry. Have another and ask Max to put it on my tab,”  the translator worn by the D’rrish Ambassador was one of the very best diplomatic models available and when he needed to move rapidly through a crowded room, it was worth every credit.  The Ambassador reached Grym’s table just as the Crimelord was about to lower his own massive bulk into the chair.

 

            Grym paused, a  slightly uplifted finger signaled the bodyguard to stand at ease.  Not that the fellow would have been any obstacle to the Clydesdale-sized D’rrish, anyway.   Grym faced Kazsh-ak Teir and bowed with practiced civility.

 

            “Ambassador, you honor me,” the D’rrish translator wasn’t the only thing in the Mare capable of switching to diplomatic mode.  “My name is Grym.  It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

            “The pleasure is all yours, I’m sure.”  Which for the D’rrish Ambassador, was as rude as anyone in the room—Max included—had ever heard.  “Your name is known to me, Mr. Grym.  And your reputation precedes you by many paths and through channels both above and below the sand.”

 

            “The sands cover both lies and truths, in the end, Ambassador.  And when they are unearthed, are not lies often the more abundant?” Grym was no stranger to D’rrish platitudes.  Especially recently, since he had been delving into the history and philosophy of Bethdish’s  third oldest alien colony. 

 

            “Well spoken, Mr. Grym.”  It seemed the Ambassador was becoming more cautious, more diplomatic.  This Grym was not the crude commoner he had expected.  “It is fortunate, perhaps, that our paths have not crossed before now.  Except for a certain incident involving illegal dumping of nuclear wastes near our colony, none of your enterprises have interfered with us so we have left you alone, as well.”

 

            “I recall the ridiculous charges made a few years ago,” Grym seemed almost sympathetic.  “If I am not mistaken, the Reever himself declared the investigation complete.  Lack of evidence, or something.  A pity the waste hauler and his family perished in that freak accident.  I’m quite sure that his testimony would have revealed the entire episode to have been a tragic error.  My company paid a hefty fine and cleaned-up the area, I believe.  But the sands have covered that business, as well, don’t you think?  And yet you sought me out, tonight.  How may I be of assistance to the noble and ever-wise D’rrish?”

 

            At that moment Blanche approached the table ready to take the Crimelord’s order.  Kazsh-ak Teir scuttled to the side to allow enough space to accommodate her own resplendent mass.  Standing between the two, the normally Reubenesque waitress seemed almost diminutive.  Though she moved through life with humor, elegance and grace, on her face was a barely-controlled scowl as she spoke.

 

            “What do you want?” Grym’s reputation had, indeed, preceded him.

 

            “What indeed?”  Grym’s leer would have chilled the cockles of the most jaded professional walking the nighttime streets in the worst sections of the City of Lights.

 

            But Blanche merely arched her eyebrows in contempt and replied  “Not on your best day, me Chunky Chum.  And then not even if you were the last man in the Universe and I’d been fed a diet of nothing but Aphrodesia for a year.”  Her returning smile would have driven a lesser man insane with desire.

           

            Grym was probably already insane, by most rational standards.  He was unaccustomed to such cavalier dismissal.  But he knew better than to allow this common barmaid to get the best of him.  “Ah, but for you dear lady, I would relinquish my evil ways and give all my wealth to charity.  All for the smallest kiss, the merest loving glance.”

 

            “Silver-tongued Devil, aren’t ya?” she almost laughed but continued the banter.  “A single taste of this,” and she vigorously slapped her ample thigh with her free hand.  “And you’d starve to death rather than sully y’er pallet with mere ambrosia.”  But Blanche was tiring of this game.  It was time to put this disgusting scourge on all decent folk in his place.  “But place y’er order, Bub.  Ain’t got all night to waste tradin’ barbs with the likes of you.”

 

            Grym’s outward appearance was of amused tolerance, but within he was a seething cauldron of anger.  Still, there was an angry D’rrish before him and if nothing else, anyone close by would certainly remember this little exchange.  He was here to establish an alibi after all.  “I understand that this establishment makes an excellent Flotilla Surprise.  My companion,” and Grym indicated his bodyguard with a nod,  “will not be enjoying your hospitality, this evening.  Allergic, poor fellow.” Grym, seemed as unaffected by Blanche’s dismissive demeanor as she by his continuing crude appraisal.  But inside, Grym was planning retribution.  He was not accustomed to being treated this way by servants nor accosted by aliens as if he were a common street vendor whose wares had been found substandard.  Lewgan!, he thought.  Using this tactic to establish an alibi was Lewgan’s idea.  Perhaps a little lesson in propriety is in order.  And miles away, as he concentrated on the screens monitoring the Seller’s meeting with Grym’s Double, Lewgan felt a chill.  Unlike Guiles Thornby, Lewgan had been tested for latent psychic ability.  Somehow, somewhere, he had been endangered.  And he knew of only one true threat to his personal safety:  The Boss.

 

            “As a matter of fact,” Grym continued, simulating a jovial demeanor.  “Since it has been some time since my last visit to the Mare Inebrium,  why don’t you just refill every glass in the house, with my compliments.”  Grym’s last words somehow carried to every corner of the room and was greeted with cheers, whistles and hoots.   But the din was far less than a crowd this size would normally have merited.  Many, it seemed, were unsure whether they would refuse the offer or merely pour it on the floor when it arrived. 

 

            Grym looked up as if surprised to find the huge D’rrish still looming over him.  “Please forgive the interruption, Ambassador, I believe you had some business to discuss with me?”

 

            “The Kkhresh’diak urn,”  Kazsh-ak Teir answered without preamble.  “Your agents have been making enquiries about it and I wish to know what your intentions are.  I assure you that it is not for sale, not for any price.”

 

            “Ah yes, the funerary urn of your great first emperor,” Grym was aware that his research had not gone unnoticed.  He was a little surprised that the efforts had been traced back to his organization, but was more interested in results than secrecy at the present time.  He had anticipated that Kazsh-ak Teir’s confrontational approach might have been related to his current project.  Grym was rarely truly surprised by anything.  “I understand that it is a most sacred, and priceless, icon for your august people and I would never presume to attempt to purchase it as if it were a mere trinket.  I am truly saddened by your accusation, Ambassador.  I had hoped that we might be able to use this rare opportunity to get to know each other better.  I had heard that you.  . .uh.  .  .often patronize this establishment and I’m afraid I took the liberty of asking some of my staff to research the urn so as to provide a convenient area of common interest.  To break the ice, so to speak.”  Grym could lie like the Grinch without hesitation or qualm.  It was just another in the arsenal of useful skills which had allowed him to maintain his position for as long as he had. 

 

            “In fact, I understand that it resides within this very building.  Do you suppose that I might be allowed the privilege to actually view this magnificent specimen of your remarkable culture’s fascinating history?”  Grym was running on pure instinct, laying it on as thick as he judged the market would bear.  He had a sudden feeling that this evening’s efforts might turn out to be very profitable, indeed.

 

            “I’m afraid that will be quite impossible, Mr. Grym.  And I am quite sure that you know why.”  The trouble with translators is that the good ones reveal only what the speaker wants them to.  Grym was good, but he knew that even he would be completely unable to read anything from D’rrish body language.  But inspiration, that most elusive of commodities, struck.

 

            “Oh, I do hope that the urn is safe,”   there was an oily, slick quality to Grym’s voice.  “I would be aghast to hear that it had been damaged by the recent.  .  .troubles everyone is talking about.

 

            It was too much for the D’rrish.  “Of COURSE the urn is safe!  And it will remain so long after you and I have been covered by the sands, Mr. Grym.  I have seen it, myself, this very day.  And in the spirit of your effusive praise for my people and our history, I will make you an offer.”  Grym found himself having to consciously stop himself from leaning away as the D’rrish Ambassador lowered his heavily mandibled ‘face’ to within inches of his own.

 

“I promise you, Mr. Grym, that if you are ever invited into the reception hall where the urn was last displayed, I will personally remove it from it’s protective enclosure and place it in your hands for a thorough inspection.  Of course, you may want to wear some lead-lined gloves and take an antirad pill before I do.  I understand that humanoids are particularly sensitive to neutron radiation.  Pity, most of us find high flux densities to be quite refreshing.”

 

Grym’s smile faltered for the first time that evening, but it wasn’t from the ridiculous threat made by the D’rrish Ambassador.  His researches had indicated that the funerary vessels posed no true health hazard due to the energetic emissions of decayed D’rrish tissue.  He had been appreciatively eying Blanche as she retrieved his drink from the bar.  He momentarily lost her in the crowd and when she reappeared.  .  .was he seeing things?  Had she just spit into his drink?  As she navigated in his direction, she smiled sweetly.  She knew had been watching her, didn’t she?  Would she?  Could she?

 

His distraction had caused an awkward pause in the conversation.  The implications of the D’rrish’s statement finally struck home.  He was stunned at the ease with which he had manipulated the Ambassador into revealing what he had been unable to skrye utilizing the talents some of his best agents.  But had it been too easy?  Was this a trick?  He decided it was not.  The true Kkhresh’diak urn was still within the Mare Tower.  Whoever had sent the data crystal was offering a fake.  Lewgan, he thought to himself, You’re a genius!

 

“I would be honored, Ambassador.”  And  as the D’rrish stalked away, Blanche deftly dodged the huge scorpioid and placed the drink before him.  Grym looked at her for a moment, attempting to decide whether she had, or hadn’t.  Her visage was innocence, itself.  With a shrug, Grym took a tentative first sip of his Flotilla Surprise a la Mare Inebrium. Again, he was surprised.  Lewgan, you may be a genius, but you’re certainly no bartender.  Perhaps he would pay this place another visit under more cordial circumstances.  And perhaps that lovely, graceful creature who had taken his order.  .  .and then he recalled what she had done to his drink.  Or did she?  Ah well, he mused, enjoying the complicated and expensive concoction, nonetheless.  Where would we be if we achieved every goal without effort, eh?  And for the first time in what seemed ages, Mr. Grym relaxed and enjoyed sitting in a bar w