Gates Of Hell
by
Susan Sizemore

"Cold night," Kacina said in passing.

Pyr absently nodded his agreement, and the large woman went on her way, going up the creaking stairs just behind where he sat. Pyr kept his attention on what little was going on around him. The bar wasn't crowded; hadn't been in weeks. The only people in the cavernous room were the crew from the Raptor, and several outcast native women. Pyr discounted the Orlinian natives.

It was his own men he studied carefully from beneath the wide, flat, brim of his hat while waiting for the Dosin's messenger. The four of them had been together for many years, but lately they had good reason to keep watch on each other. Linch was seated at the bar. Silver and brown streaked hair obscured his thin face as he bent over a pretty fortune-teller's cards, moving them into patterns he preferred. Pilsane was alone at a table in the center of the room, seated under a half-lit chandelier, its candles cast gold light on his fair hair and white shirt. He was staring at the pieces on a game board. Every now and then he moved one, though there was no partner playing against him on the opposite side of the table. Mik, the heavily-muscled engineer, held a small silver box in one hand, his plain features fixed with utter concentration on the object. He had long, elegant hands for such a big man, capable of the most delicate work. Mik also had two girls vying with the silver box for his attention. Pyr knew the engineer would get around to both women eventually, but would tease them with his intense interest in his work for a while longer.

Pyr shook his head, not sure if he was feeling indulgent or bored by his men's habits. It was a typical downport night. Pilsane, immersed as he was in the Bucon pirate mindset, could almost play a game with himself and lose. Linch consulted the cards as a joke, possibly even as a kindness to the girl reading them. They were on a backward world where the natives feared the future and sought to protect themselves from it.

Pyr could find no unpredictable behavior at all from any of his crew. He supposed he should be relieved.

Pyr admitted his tense impatience was typical as well. Patience was almost as much an affectation with him as Pilsane's studied cool was for the navigator. Pyr was known more for his hot temper and ruthlessness. It wasn't a cultivated habit; he was simply not a nice man. He was feeling less nice with every passing moment. Control it, he told himself. "Cold night," he murmured.

He looked down at the untouched glass of wine before him, allowing his men the privacy to pretend not to study him. As he inspected the facets of the cut-crystal goblet he made himself enjoy the texture of the material beneath his fingers, appreciate the primitive style. He kept his longing to crush it to sand in check. Then he took a deep breath, and counted the black-work stitches of embroidery on the hand-woven white tablecloth instead of the passing minutes.

He folded his hands before him and tried to be patient. When he was younger he had attempted to learn something about meditation from a border-world monk; an elderly warrior who had retired to seek peace in the wilderness. The lessons hadn't taken. So Pyr eventually ran off to be a pirate. It had seemed more useful than the other occupations he'd tried. Though the Bucon pirate guild hadn't been particularly happy with his appearance in the border territory.

After watching his knuckles turn white from the pressure of being patient for a while he noticed the red skirt of one of the girls as she came toward him. Pyr caught a trace of the spicy perfume he'd brought the girls a few months before carried to him on the cool air. It blended well with the underlying scents of candle wax and wood smoke. Simple gifts like perfume pleased Kacina's girls in the days before the plague. Now the only gift they wanted was life. Death was easier to obtain, but he'd done what he could for the women. It at least gave them a false sense of safety so they could sit in a bar with his men and pretend all was well.

The girl did not stop beside him, just paused hopefully for an instant before she continued on toward the stairway. His sharp ears caught a whispered comment from the girl to Kacina as the bar owner passed her on the way back down to the main room. Pyr ducked his head, hiding his ironic smile beneath the rim of his black hat. Perhaps later, he sent the thought after the girl, I'll prove that I'm not more interested in my own men.

The room was lit only by many candles, and a deep fireplace set in the wall farthest from his table. It was not summer on this world, and Pry liked warmth. He especially liked the steady warmth of the controlled environment of his ship. On planets he donned the obligatory pirate garb, and froze more often than not. Mik agreed with him, and wore a heavily fringed suede jacket to combat the chill. Pilsane probably had thermals as well as body armor beneath his flowing-sleeved white shirt. Linch ignored the winter air, wearing no shirt at all. His chest was covered by a worn leather vest, but his corded-muscled arms were bare except for the thick gold bracelet worn by each member of the RAPTOR's command crew. Pyr didn't know why or how the pilot stood it. He had no use for discomfort, and besides the wide-brimmed hat decorated with a heavy silver band, he wore a long black leather overcoat to keep out the cold.

Thinking of coping with natural discomfort did nothing to take his mind off the growing ache that plagued them all. Only one thing helped the hunger growing in his body and mind. His mind he could control, but the body made its own demands. The dependency did nothing for his temper. He gave a silent snarl as he dug into the deep pocket of his coat and fished out a clear cylindrical bottle. He placed it on the center of the table, and looked at it with utter hatred. Then Pyr lifted his head to watch his men casually drift away from their pursuits and toward the drug calling them all. Pride and pretense was about all they had to fight with. Linch lingered the longest over the cards, then kissed the fortune teller and joined Mik and Pilsane who had already taken seats on either side of Pyr.

Once seated opposite his captain, Linch said quietly, "I thought we were going to wait fifty hours this time."

"I don't plan to die today," Pyr answered, his gaze locking with the pilot's. He flicked the top off the bottle while the others watched. He was surrounded by their hunger, as sharp as knives. "You could wait another two hours," he suggested.

Linch's thin lips creased in a smile. "I don't plan to die today either, Dha-lrm."

Pyr lifted one eyebrow in question at the affection in the pilot's voice. Sometimes he forgot the friendship between them. "I'm happy to hear it," Pyr said, and got a slight nod in reply.

He doled out a capsule apiece to himself and his crew. They had an adequate supply of Rust, but had come to a mutual decision to limit themselves to a minimum dosage. Drugs were for fools. Dependence on drug dealers was for slaves.

"How fortunate one of Persey's ships happened to be passing when we raided Nadere," Pilsane commented after he popped his capsule into his mouth.

Mik laughed coldly, and downed the clear orange drug. "How silly of Persey's people to think they could negotiate a price with us."

"How fatal," Linch added.

Pyr didn't join in the wry conversation. He held his capsule carefully between thumb and forefinger, waiting for Linch. The pilot cupped his dose of life in his palm for a few seconds longer, then finally tossed into his mouth. He swallowed it with a gulp of Pyr's wine. Linch set the half-empty glass down next to the Rust bottle. Pyr frowned at both, and swallowed his own capsule before Mik or Pilsane decided to make a comment. With the ritual over, Pyr put the bottle in his pocket and sat back in his chair.

"I hate waiting for anything," he informed his men.

"We know," Pilsane answered for them all. Pyr managed not to sneer at the trio; just because they were expecting it.

"How much longer are we going to wait?" Mik questioned, glancing over his shoulder to where his girls waited. One of them was poking nervously at his sliver box. He shook his head. "Good thing it's not a weapon. Siiti, hands off!" he called. The girl gasped loudly, and jumped out of her chair. Her companion laughed stridently. Mik gestured toward the stairway. "Upstairs you two." He looked questioningly at Pyr.

"Go on."

The big man stood, and followed the sound of anticipatory giggling as the girls ran up to a bedroom.

"At least he knows how to relieve the boredom," Pilsane said, and went back to his one-man game.

Linch finished off the wine. "How long do we wait?"

Pyr rubbed his cold hands together. He wore large, heavy rings on both hands. The jewels in them set off sparks of red and purple and black in the candlelight. "Dosin said tonight."

"If it isn't tonight?"

"I'll break his neck when I see him, good news or bad."

"That'll teach him to keep you waiting."

"Teach the other datarats to be prompt," Pyr explained. "Discipline, my brother."

"The first and most important lesson of all." Linch mouthed the rest of the old saying with disdain. It mattered little what he really thought. Attitude was the important thing in the border worlds.

The door to the tavern opened as Linch stood. It let in a blast of outside air, a small man, and a slender girl dressed only in a thin white shift. Dosin. With a most unexpected companion. Pyr shivered, not sure if it was from the cold, or the scars covering the girl's face and pale arms.

Kacina moved from her chosen spot by the hearth to block the girl's way. "What are you doing here, Sister?" She spoke in a reverent whisper, very unlike Kacina's normally gruff manner.

The girl shrank away from the big woman. She stood with her hands clasped before her, gaze on the polished wood of the floor. She was barely as substantial as a bad thought, but her presence riveted everyone's wary attention.

"This is unholy ground," Kacina continued.

Pyr loathed the respect he heard in the woman's tone. He didn't like the way the other women drew suddenly into the room's heavy shadows. Shame and tension radiated from the Orlinian women as strongly as the scent of spice perfume.

"All here are outworlders and heretics," Kacina said, gesturing at her patrons. "Soiled beyond conversion."

"I have dispensation," the priestess answered. Her voice was soft, the contempt at having to speak to an outcast icy. Kacina looked surprised at having been spoken to at all, but bowed to the girl and moved aside. She hurriedly joined her women as far away from the fanatic as they could get without showing the disrespect of fleeing from one of the Saved.

Pyr shook his head as Dosin and the priestess continued toward him. Shadow and light from the wavering candles played around them as they approached. He waited, steeling himself for an encounter with one of the fanatics, just barely keeping the snarl out of his throat. The small man took the chair opposite Pyr. The girl remained standing, hovering like a ghost behind Dosin's back. The white draperies of her dress, and her long, stringy hair stirred eerily in the room's faint draft. Pyr tried to ignore her for the moment, though he could feel the fire of her insanity radiating toward him. Hardly the sort of warmth he craved.

Since none of the girls would dare approach a priestess, and it would not do for him to fetch anything himself, Pyr didn't offer Dosin a glass of wine. Linch and Pilsane waited by the bar and gameboard, inconspicuous, but within hearing distance. Pyr lay his hands flat on the table, looking down, his hat once again shadowing his face.

"Good evening." Dosin's voice was steady, but Pyr heard the grating of the datarat's nerves. Bad news, then, or none at all. "I bring my apologies at my ineptitude, Captain Pyr."

Pyr sharply lifted his head to glare at the native. He kept his voice soft. "Oh?"

Dosin quickly pointed to the girl behind him. "This Sister is called Lita. She was sent to me, and I brought her to you." He hastily vacated his chair and pushed the girl into it. She sat with a shocked thud. Dosin clamped his hands on her shoulders to keep her from fleeing. "This one has brought many deaths," he introduced Pyr. "With your help, little Sister, he can bring many more."

Pyr forced himself to look at the girl. He didn't think she could be much more than eighteen. Some of her scars were probably nearly as old. The most recent marks seemed to be a still-inflamed trio of triangular brands on her forehead and cheeks. Marks of the highest order of the native religion, identifying her as one of Idel's own sisters. She was marked to die young and in a great deal of pain. Knowing she looked forward to it made Pyr's skin crawl.

He didn't let his revulsion show. "I am a killer of many," he told Lita. She smiled shyly at him. Her teeth had been filed to razor points. Pyr swallowed quietly and went on. "How can you help me, Sister?"

"Both moons are full tonight," she told him.

"It happens once every six years," Dosin explained. "Hunters moons, Captain. It's a night when the goddess looks favorably on your kind."

"Which means?" Pyr asked with cold patience.

Dosin squeezed Lita's narrow shoulders. "Lord Idel says he will speak with you tonight. Lord Idel knows a great deal about what goes on in the Empire," the datarat hurried to explain. "Death is his vocation. He makes it his business to know who deals death among the Bucon and along the borders." After some hesitation, Dosin added, "He's one of my best sources of data. But with the plague…he's only interested in fulfilling the prophecies."

"You are an instrument of the goddess," Lita added piously. Her mad eyes, a pale silver-blue, looked at Pyr with adoration.

"Idel sees your being in port during Hunters' Festival as a sign from the goddess," Dosin explained.

The girl reached into the bosom of her dress and brought out something clenched in her small fist. Pyr held out his hand and she placed a piece of jewelry in his palm. It was warm from contact with her flesh, the colors of the three jewels set in the circular gold brooch matching the ruby, amethyst and onyx in the rings he wore. He closed his hand on the brooch. It did not feel like a copy. When Pyr looked up, he saw Linch and Pilsane standing over him, and could hear Mik clattering down the stairs.

"I think we better have a talk with Lord Idel."

Pilsane took a step back. "We?"

Mik stopped behind the priestess and patted the girl on the head. His face was flushed a dark copper, and his breath came out in puffs of steam. "I don't want to end up looking like the little one here."

The girl's face was too ruined to show any proper expression, but Pyr watched her icy eyes glint with fury. Apparently she'd expected them to joyfully run off into the arms of her cult.

"Careful," he warned Mik. "She might bite."

The engineer snatched his hand back and wiped in on his pants' leg. "That's why I'm not going to the temple," he explained. "They all bite."

"Very bad habits," Linch agreed. He glanced over at the women who'd crowded into a corner like herdbeasts. "I do have plans for the evening, Captain."

"And this really isn't any of our business," Pilsane added. He smiled. "Have a nice time."

At least his teeth weren't pointed. Pyr sighed as his three men backed off into the shadows. "It is my affair," he acknowledged.

Dosin shook his head unhappily. "I'll never understand Bucons."

"Would your men not follow you into death?" the horrified priestess asked.

Pyr shrugged. "It's not a strong possibility." He stood, kicking his chair back across the floor. It scraped loudly against the polished wood. "Shall we go?"

Dosin shuddered. "I've come as far as I plan on the Hunters night. The priestess will protect you," he promised as Pyr glowered at him. "Good hunting, Captain."

Pyr didn't insist. He didn't mention any payment for the datarat's services, either. Dosin pretended not to notice as Pyr came around the table. He grabbed the girl by the upper arm, his fingers dug into her fragile skin as he pulled her to her feet. The layers of scarring felt even worse than they looked. "Then it's into the night with us, Lita," he told her with grim cheerfulness.

She gave him a saw-toothed smile. "Good hunting for us both," she said, radiating blood-lust and anticipation.

Pyr's eyes met Pilsane's as the navigator looked up briefly from his solitary game, then he shoved the girl ahead of him toward the door.

Kacina waited before the entrance, blocking his way. The big woman looked guilty. She held a nearly full bottle of Rust out as he approached. "Lord Pyr," she said humbly. "I want to return these to you. It is unholy to hide from death." She glanced covertly at the priestess. "Even for an outcast."

Lita gave Kacina an approving nod. Pyr's hand clenched even tighter on the girl's frail arm. Her only reaction to the pain was a mildly romantic sigh.

"Please, Lord Pyr," Kacina pleaded. "Take back your gift."

"Demons! I have no time for this nonsense." He used his free hand to push Kacina aside. "You'll be glad of the medicine once the madwoman is out of sight." He noticed for the first time how warm Lita's skin was. Warm, with a faint film of sweat on this winter night. Early signs of the plague. The brightness of her eyes wasn't just madness, then. No happy death at the hands of the torturer for her. He wondered if he should pity her. It was a good thing he hadn't decided to wait another two hours for his own hit of the drug.

Kacina insistently pressed the bottle into his hand. He took it, tossed it over his shoulder. "Linch." He didn't have to look to know the pilot had caught the bottle.

"Captain?"

"Have a short and specific discussion about matters of life and death with the ladies after I'm gone."

"As you wish, Captain."

"Thank you."

He glared at Kacina, and the repentant Orlinian lumbered hurriedly out of his way. As he pushed Lita before him into the cold darkness, he grumbled, "Women."

"Demons," Pyr repeated as he strode down the center of the brick-paved street.

The lumpy paving was slippery beneath his boots. The natives barred their doors at sunset, leaving the night to heretics, outcasts, the Saved, and well-armed outworlders. The small spaceport had its own lighting, but once in the streets of the primitive city a torch, or good night vision, was necessary. Pyr had better than average hearing, but average sight. And no torch tonight. Even with both small moons at full, it was difficult to find his way in the post-midnight quiet.

Lita wriggled out of his grasp soon after they left Kacina's. She flitted ahead of him, her draperies doing a ghost-dance. Her insane laughter made the night seem colder as he threaded carefully after her. Every now and then he could hear the howling of the prowling Initiates. Once he heard the screams of one of the suicides who'd decided it was better to be a sacrifice to the Hunter than the plague. So far he hadn't seen anyone but his guide.

Pyr balled his hands into fists inside his deep coat pockets, and bit his tongue to keep from shouting at her. It was bad enough that his boots rang hollowly against the old stones with every step, and his leather coat creaked quietly as it swung around his legs. No use adding voice to the sounds that already filled the darkness. He glanced up between overhanging roofs of old buildings to see both moons staring down, like blind eyes turned on the dying. The Hunter's Eyes, he'd heard Kacina call them - and guiltily make the outcast's sign against death. The worst thing about Orlin's death cult, he decided, was that since the Bucons built a port on this backward world, Orlinian missionaries were spreading their religion to other border cultures.

He abandoned watching the moons as the girl came dancing out of a side street just a few feet ahead of him. She beckoned him on, then bounded ahead to explore the deep shadows of doorways. Pyr paused long enough to check on the emptiness of the street crossing his path, then stomped after Lita.

Within a half dozen steps into deeper silence, he knew someone was following him. Not at street level, but above, gliding along the walls of the brick and wooden buildings just a few feet over his head. Noiseless - but for the nearly undetectable hum of anti-grav pads sliding along the natural materials of the houses. Not a native killer, then. No Orlinian would use anything but blessed steel on a night like this. And no native cutthroat would venture out of the port neighborhoods to risk an encounter with blessed steel. Guild assassin, then. Persey had probably complained to the authorities.

Pyr turned his head, listening carefully as a pack of Initiates began shrieking and baying no more than a block away. There were shouts of joy and sounds of pleading. Pyr could just barely make out the slap of bare feet and thud of boots on the cobblestones. Lita ran back to him and grabbed his hand, trying to pull him forward. Her skin had gone from hot to chilled and clammy. The moonlight stripped her paleness down to corpse white.

"I've made no kill." She tugged hard, pleading, "Let us join the hunt. There's time to bring blood to Idel."

"Not now, girl."

"Please!" she wheedled as a man came running into view.

The hunt's intended victim came pelting toward them. A big man in a fringed leather jacket, his long hair flying wildly behind him. He was followed closely by a trio of white-robed wraiths. Pyr saw knives washed by moonlight in their upraised hands.

Pyr shook his head, and threw the girl off. He heard the assassin drop to the ground behind him, sensibly taking advantage of the activity in the street. The Guild operative thought he'd have time to make his kill, then jump out of the hunt's way.

Very good strategy, Pyr agreed.

Pyr projected the thought so loudly that his would-be murderer was clutching his temples in surprised pain by the time Pyr turned to face him, weapon in hand.

Being a telepath, Pyr whispered into the Bucon assassin's stunned mind, has proved to have many uses.

His was a talent people usually only found out about as they died. But instead of killing the assassin, Pyr stunned him as he started to scream, then shoved the falling body against a wall as the hunt surrounded him.

Pyr whirled, shouting, "Mik!"

He relaxed as he saw the engineer banging a pair of Orlinian heads together. Bones crunched as Mik laughed, and kicked out at the third attacker. The third native danced agilely away, brandishing the knife like the madman he was.

The Initiate was a boy about Lita's age; just as scarred. He saw Pyr, and lunged forward, knife aimed at Pyr's chest. Lita screeched, throwing herself between Pyr and the blade. Pyr grabbed the girl around the waist and fired his weapon, thumbing the setting to maximum. The boy glowed briefly, turning into a frozen silhouette that sparkled, then disappeared.

Pyr kept his arm around the girl while he looked at his engineer. "Well?"

Mik jerked a thumb at the unconscious assassin. "I spotted the crawler a few blocks back and figured you could use a diversion. Wasn't hard to get the kids to follow me." Mik grinned. "Want me to question the Guilder?"

Pyr nodded. "Pilsane at the temple by now?" Mik nodded. "Linch?"

"Onboard the RAPTOR."

"Good."

The girl was humming quietly to herself, her eyes shining worshipfully up at him. "It was a beautiful death," she told him. "Full of diamonds."

Mik hefted the assassin over his broad shoulder. I used to like this planet.

I can't think why, Pyr answered the thought. Meet you at the ship.

As you say, Mik responded as he disappeared around a dark corner.

Pyr tightened his shields, making himself alone with the girl once more. He took a deep breath of the cold air, but it didn't help much. It was the rotting minds on this world that stank. He focused his consciousness, his concentration. Assassin's Guild contract was one more piece of trouble he didn't need. He would have to send them a warning that their games were over in the border for now. Things were not business as usual for anybody in his territory until he said so.

He released his hold on the girl, but she continued to cling to him. She grasped his left hand tightly in both of hers, and raised it to her cheek. He resisted the urge to shake her off, and tried glaring at her instead. Her response was to bare her fangs in a parody of a smile - and swiftly turn her head to bury her sharpened teeth in the soft skin just below his thumb.

Pyr bellowed, and felt blood spurt into the girl's mouth while she continued to gnaw on him. Her filed fangs went through muscle and down to bone.

"Bitch!"

He brought his right hand up, cuffing her below the ear. She stumbled backward, her mouth and cheeks covered in dark blood. Her shoulders hit the wall of the building behind them and she slid slowly to her knees. She stayed on the ground, giggling drunkenly to herself.

Pyr kept his gaze on her while he dug into several coat pockets with his right hand. He held his injured hand to his chest, fist was tightly clenched, but blood oozed out between his fingers to wet the leather of his coat. Eventually, he found the length of white silk he'd worn as a headband earlier in the day. He pulled out the cloth and wrapped it around the wound several times. The torn flesh throbbed painfully and was still bleeding heavily. Once he'd arranged the makeshift bandage he grabbed Lita by the hair and pulled her to her feet.

"Why?" He shook her angrily. She giggled. Pyr loosed his hold on the madwoman, denying her the pleasure of fear and pain. "Why?" he asked again, hoping he wouldn't have to touch the twisted mind behind her actions.

"You give beautiful death," she answered. Once again her eyes looked worshipfully into his. "I have given you death in exchange for mine. A gift of the Hunting. You are my victim. I will be yours." She dropped her head and scuffed her bare feet on the cobbles. In the dim light from the full moons the horrible scars were invisible. She seemed no more than a naughty child as she said, "Idel will not be pleased." Her head came back up. "You taste of metal." She licked her stained lips. "Is bitter blood different than ours? Will the poison work slower or faster, I wonder?"

Pyr did not remember grabbing the girl's shoulders, but he seemed to have them between his hands, at least one collarbone broken before he controlled the rage. "What poison?" His voice was ragged with controlled fear. The pain in his hand was growing worse. He wished it was imagination, and knew it wasn't.

"Stralisare," she answered readily, without even the decency to wince as he broke her other clavicle. "It is the goddess's own poison. Stralisare," Lita repeated, turning the word into a snake's hiss.

She'd painted her teeth with Stralisare? He wanted to scream - not with fear or pain. He wanted to howl from sheer frustration. With the galaxy crumbling around him and him trying to pick up as many pieces as he could, he had made no contingency for this. How typically, arrogantly, stupid of him to have ignored the possibility of his own death. Stralisare. Painful. Fatal. No cure. Slow, but not slow enough. The effects worked differently with each type of humanoid, but work they did. It could be a few days, or a few weeks.

Too much to do in too little time as it was - and this damn fool girl killed him on a whim.

"Death isn't beautiful," He assured Lita. "Death just is." Inconvenient and mindless and impossible to avoid. "Don't run to it as if it held your answers." Too late for philosophy. Too late for pity. He grabbed her arm, and pushed her up the street before him. He had no intention of letting her slip away before they reached the temple. Hunting cries and screams from the prey sounded occasionally around them as she directed him to the center of the city.

"Square's empty, Captain. Has been since I got here."

Pilsane peeled himself from the deepest shadow of the temple courtyard. He'd been waiting beneath the great statue of the goddess; directly in front of the arched entrance to the windowless marble building. The torches normally lighting her grisly, blackened visage were extinguished for the night. None of her devotees were keeping vigil under her skeletal image during Hunter's Moon. The stench of old blood and rotting flesh from the constant sacrifices of every other day of the year lingered in the chilled air. No flowers or incense for the death goddess of Orlin.

"What happened to your hand?" Pilsane asked as he walked toward the entrance beside Pyr. He leaned against a pillar as they reached the doorway, and added, "Your little walk was to give me time to check out the temple, not get you into trouble."

Pyr pulled his hand from Lita's frail shoulder. She hunched forward, finally showing some reaction to the broken bones. "The bitch needs a muzzle. Mik reported yet?"

Pilsane shook his head. "Sensors don't indicate any activity inside or out of the temple that is in any way out of the ordinary for the locals. Bioscan reads that everyone inside the temple is Orlinian. You going in?"

Pyr thought of the brooch in his pocket. "Do I have a choice?" His whole hand was hurting now.

"Watch yourself, Captain."

Pyr nodded. Pilsane pushed himself away from the pillar and faded back into the darkness beneath the statue. Pyr grimaced, flexed his aching hand, then pushed the priestess ahead of him through the door.

"Pyr of the Raptor, join me." Lord Idel smiled down from a skull-shaped throne.

An image identical to the statue in the courtyard loomed over the rounded back of Idel's throne, her bald head circled by a ring of fire. A ring of torches circled the long room as well, throwing out light and heat. Smoke curled up to the soot-blackened ceiling high overhead. Pyr welcomed the warmth, even though the acrid air irritated his lungs. Black and red mosaics tiled the floor of the long, narrow room. Their texture was almost as rough as the cobblestone streets of the town. The wall paintings were vivid depictions of ritual mutilations and sacrifices. The wall behind the tall statue of the goddess was reserved for a mural showing the death of worlds; the spiral of the galaxy painted as a fall of glowing ashes. It was a modern addition to the native belief in the necessary destruction of all life.

Idel was alone in the room. The high priest looked casually relaxed as he leaned back on his throne, legs crossed, a silver goblet of something Pyr hoped was wine in one hand. The young high priest was imitating more than Bucon attitudes. Instead of traditional white robes, he was dressed in tight black leather boots and trousers. His chest was bare, except for a heavy pectoral collar. The design was of gold snakes twined with silver whips and jeweled chains. He smiled again, and Pyr noted a glint of impatience in the boy's pale eyes. Idel's skin was pale, contrasting sharply with his leather clothes and heavy black hair. No scars.

Priests were sacred beings, raised to make sacrifices, not to be sacrifices. Idel was probably the only person on the whole planet who had never known a moment of pain. Or a moment without any wish fulfilled. A spoiled brat reared to unnatural whims. A smart brat from what Pyr had heard about him. One with a hint of eagerness shining in his eyes.

Pyr waited. He held Lita still between his hands when she would rather have been groveling at her lord's feet. As the silence grew, Idel's welcoming smile turned into a sneer. Pyr did not believe in spoiling children, and had no intention of stepping into the fire for the boy's entertainment until he was ready. Fire was what waited between the door and the foot of the dais. Pyr had noticed the thin silver line of a personal security system that circled the walls beneath the ring of torches. Idel was in control of a toy that could be set from a warning tingle to instant death. It would be one of the in-between settings the high priest used on his guest; a little test, and minor entertainment before getting down to business. The controls were on the arm of the skull throne, where Idel's right hand rested languidly on the curved surface.

Pyr was not really interested in proving his stoical imperviousness to the world at large. Having to prove it to his own men was inconvenient enough. Warrior codes were a lot of nonsense. Pain hurt. Nothing wrong with screaming and writhing in agony if it didn't get in the way of business. But of course, screaming and writhing wouldn't get him what he needed from the boy. Pyr permitted himself an exasperated sigh.

"My thanks for the guide, Lord Idel."

The boy inclined his head. "My servant is yours for the taking, Raptor."

Since the plague will take her in a few days, anyway, Pyr added silently. Here was another game he'd rather not play, even though the girl had forfeited her life with the bite. Pity it had to be done as entertainment for Idel.

Pyr bent his head and whispered in the girl's ear. "May you find a better world." She was in shock from broken bones, and starting to feel the Sag Fever. When he snapped her neck she hardly noticed dying. Pyr felt it as an easing of pressure on his shields. One less mad mind to keep out. "No diamonds for you, Lita."

Pyr dropped the body and stepped forward, hands buried deep in his pockets. The boy leaned forward in his chair, expression eager, eyes hungry. Having a wonderful time.

The space between them was immediately blanketed by a web of greenish light. Pyr walked into it as if he didn't notice the flickering ribbons of energy he had to wade through to get to Idel. About one third strength, he estimated. How flattering. He set an unhurried pace, though it felt like heated metal melting through leather and silk and flesh. The lightweb died as he reached the foot of the dais, leaving only torchlight to illuminate the room. The pain died with the light. Pyr nodded slightly to Idel, who tossed away his goblet. It bounced off the statue of the goddess with a loud, grating clang.

Pyr drew the brooch out of his pocket, showed it to Idel, then put it away. "Another gift, Lord Idel?"

"It is known that you search for a traitor who deserted your ship. You hunt for him through the border worlds and into the chaos of the Bucon Empire. The traitor wore your colors on a piece of jewelry. That piece of jewelry."

"It's not so much the traitor I'm interested in," Pyr replied. "I want to find who he sold his services to."

Idel sat forward on his skull throne. "Of course. You seek to manipulate the delicate balance of power among you Bucons. Each pirate lord has territory, bases, private arrangements, many secrets."

"And traitors die," Pyr said to encourage Idel's interest. "I want death for the traitor as well. Before he dies I need to know who he works for."

"So this lord will also die."

"Of course."

"You are not like other Bucons, Captain. You are more ruthless than most." Idel beamed a smile of approval at Pyr. Pyr nodded in acknowledgement.

"There are Outsiders on the other side of the Rose, Idel," he answered the priest. "Ruthlessness is required to deal with Outsiders."

"One never hears anything gentle about Outsiders," Idel agreed. The boy's pale eyes studied him carefully. "And with many Bucons seeking to take over your territory, you find it difficult to discover which poses the strongest threat." He grinned. "I love studying the complicated games of your people."

That Idel had inserted himself in Pyr's business was a good indication that the young high priest felt he'd studied long enough; that it was time to enter the game himself. Pyr began to find the hot room stifling. Heavy smells of rotting flesh and smoke permeated the air. Primitive world. Primitive schemes. "It's simple, Lord Idel," he said. "No one steals what is mine."

"The plague might take you. Steal the life you do not dedicate to the goddess. Death in many forms may destroy your power."

"Someday it will. Not yet."

"Death only makes me stronger." Idel crossed his arms. "Death brings the goddess power. Most Bucons are cowards who bargain with those who cross them. You kill. You make sacrifice of traitors and would-be usurpers."

Pyr was tired of the conversation. "Where'd you get the brooch?"

"One of the Meek brought it to me."

The Meek were missionaries Idel sent to preach redemption through pain and death on the pirate base worlds. They also served as torturers for at least a dozen minor pirate captains. Cheap and enthusiastic labor who asked no more than a chance to preach and practice their faith. Ears and eyes for Idel, Pyr realized now. It appeared the boy had ambitions to rule the border in place of Bucons or Borderers or the United Systems. It made sense for Idel to offer Pyr information. When Pyr was done, there would be fewer Bucons alive to challenge Idel's own ambitions.

Pyr couldn't spare the time to inquire into Idel's plans for the future. "Where's Axylel?"

"The brooch came to me through a Meek who serves a Captain Paal."

"Paal's a thieving pimp." Pyr almost smiled. "Honorable professions, both. Where did Paal get the jewelry from?"

"Perhaps your traitor has gone to work for Paal."

"Don't be ridiculous. If Paal let one of your spies get the brooch to you, it's because he got it from someone else. He's trying to placate me, but not get involved himself." You're playing it too cleverly, Paal, Pyr thought angrily. We'll have to have a talk about that sometime in the future. Pyr nearly laughed aloud. He had no future. He better leave a few notes for Linch. "I'm betting you know this game. Who did Paal get the brooch from?"

Suddenly Idel seemed as tired of this conversation as Pyr. He yawned. "My hunters will be returning soon. I have a ceremony to perform. The name you want is Denvry. I am told that Paal stole the pin from one of Denvry's women."

"Did he question the woman? Did he see Axylel at Denvry's stronghold?"

"No one has seen the Raptor's other red-head for weeks." Idel's yawned again. "It surprised everyone when he fled you for another's protection."

Pyr didn't let it annoy him. "Bucons go where the profit is, Lord Idel. The boy's only trying to do what's best for himself." On a whim he once more fished out his bottle of Rust. As he tossed it to the priest, he said, "My thanks. Tuck that away before your followers find out it isn't a miracle that spares you from the plague."

Idel laughed cynically. "Rust is a miracle, Captain. Good hunting."

Pyr raised his right wrist and pressed one of the controls on his bracelet with stiffening fingers. "Pilsane."

"Here."

"Linch."

"Yes, Captain?"

"Two to travel on my mark."

"Ready, Captain."

"Open the Door."

Within moments the black circle opened before him. He walked through, away from the too-hot room and its stench of death. Inside the Door his eyes were blinded by white light that blocked out the shocked mask of Idel's face. Pyr couldn't help but think of diamonds.

"Welcome home," Linch greeted as he and Pilsane stepped aboard the ship. "You look like shit, Dha-lrm," he added cheerfully.

"I look like a man in need of some sleep," Pyr answered as he pulled off his hat and shook out his long red hair.

The three of them left the Door station and walked down the long, empty corridor toward the central commons. The emptiness was odd. The Raptor was bigger, faster and better equipped than any other raider in the border territory. It took more than four competent men to operate the ship efficiently. Many of the crew had died of the plague, two had disappeared with Axylel. The others -

"Let anybody loose yet?" Pilsane asked.

Linch lifted his eyebrows at Pyr. "Our leader hasn't given that order."

"Our leader better get himself to the dispensary," Pilsane advised. "Those fangs must have made a messy cut."

Pyr flexed his hand. "Too bad our medic died of the plague."

"She cost enough," Linch complained. "I miss her."

"You miss her because she liked music," Pyr informed the pilot. At least that was the reason Linch gave for bringing a sixty year old Terran physician back from the Morkan slave market after the crew had specifically requested a pretty, young medic. Right now Pyr was glad there was no one in the dispensary who could report his little problem to anyone else on board.

"About the crew?" Pilsane questioned insistently

Pyr ignored him as they entered the common room. Mik was seated at a long table. The room held two other smaller tables, a computer station and holo game terminals. There were doors leading to crew quarters on either side of a food prep and serving area. The common had a carelessly cluttered look, with data boards, and the remains of finished meals, left on the tables.

Mik had a heaped plate in front of him. He barely looked up as they entered. The crawler belonged to Persey, he reported, telepathic shields lowered so that everyone could catch the thought while he occupied his mouth with food. Had nothing of interest to say, so I spaced him.

Pilsane and Linch took seats at the table. Pyr remained standing. He took the brooch out of his pocket long enough to show the others. "We're looking for Denvry." He received three anticipatory smiles.

"At last!" Mik spun his chair away from the table. "Somewhere to go. Something to do."

"Another drug runner to kill," Linch added as he picked up the eight-stringed ligret he'd left lying across a chair. He fingered the instrument, producing an amplified, baying howl. Linch communicated with music as much as he did with words or thoughts. He continued to play quietly as they talked.

"So Denvry's been keeping the family jewels." Pilsane contributed.

"Possibly," Pyr agreed cautiously. He pulled off his long coat and tossed it toward an empty chair. It landed on the deck. He raised a sardonic eyebrow at Pilsane's annoyed look. "Yes?"

Pilsane looked disgustedly around the common. "I don't recall being boarded and ransacked. This place looks like it, though." Linch underscored the words with a few sympathetically sighing chords. "No wonder Kristi calls us slobs." Pilsane had to speak loudly to be heard over the sound of the ligret. Over the years they'd all gotten used to talking over the sound of the ligret.

'Slob' was a word from Kristi's native Terran language; an evocative sound that had become part of the crew's pidgin language. "Very well," Pyr conceded to Pilsane. "Let Kristi and Vi out of their quarters to perform maintenance - after we've set course for Denvry's base."

Pilsane grinned, happy to hear that his creature comforts were to be looked after. The easily controlled couple were his personal additions to the RAPTOR's odd complement. Pilsane had taken to them in much the same way Linch had to the dead medic. Their attitudes toward the chattel were almost like children with pets. Nasty way to think of sentient beings, Pyr cautioned himself. Then, it was a nasty life he led, wasn't it? Nastier still, if he let himself think of any but his own kind as people.

Pyr sat down at the computer console. After he'd been there for a few minutes, Pilsane came to look over his shoulder. Linch played quietly on while Mik finished his meal. Pyr's hand ached as he called up data. Screens full of information flashed by.

Calrod. Pilsane's thought matched the encrypted word.

"I thought this was my private code," Pyr complained when the probable location of Denvry's base showed on the screen.

"Got bored and broke it a couple days ago." Pilsane patted Pyr on the shoulder. "You're getting better, Captain."

"Thank you." Pilsane had the instincts of a datarat, and a smirk Pyr didn't have to look at to know was there. There was no keeping secrets on board the RAPTOR. Not that they didn't all try. "I'll attempt to make my code tougher to crack next time."

"I'd appreciate that."

All the research in Pyr's database indicated that Denvry was on Calrod. Denvry, and four ships, and maybe eighty people. The odds were not unreasonable, but it was further into Bucon territory than Pyr had ventured until now. Hard to keep control of the border when he wasn't there.

Pyr shut down the station and turned to face the room. Pilsane took a few steps back as he swiveled the chair. Linch lifted his gaze from the ligret strings. When he had their attention, Pyr finally addressed the questions Pilsane had brought up earlier. "We'll need minimum stations manned. How's the Rust supply?"

"Approximately twenty days worth," Linch answered. "Who of the crew do we trust?" Linch addressed the heart of the matter. "And what do we offer them? Besides Rust. They're greedy bastards." He ran his fingers absently up and down scales as he spoke.

After some discussion, they agreed on three crewmembers that were vital, and still trustworthy enough to return to duty. That left forty more plague survivors locked up with their habits in the chattel hold.

"Crew's getting restless," Pilsane warned. "Kith's goading them to remember they're pirates. It's not just Rust they want. It's going to get ugly."

"Mutinies are boring," Pyr said. "They stay locked up. Let Kith know I'll consider using crew for raiding Denvry's base."

Linch set the ligret aside. The pilot suddenly had the appearance of a thin, sharp blade; a weapon that could be depended on. Pyr smiled affectionately, comfortable for the moment with the ties and trust of years, though he barely let the expression reach his face. It got him a thought-sent flicker of amusement from Linch anyway.

"Let's go haul out the chosen few," Linch said to Pilsane and Mik.

"Look after that hand," Pilsane reminded Pyr before he exited.

After they were gone Pyr let himself have a moment to slump tiredly in the chair. He scrubbed his right hand across his face and through the bangs covering his forehead. Demons, it hurt! He would go to the dispensary all right, looking for painkillers. When he left the common he pretended he felt as brisk and efficient as he tried to look. He told himself this was good practice for the masquerade he was going to have to live as long as he could before his ever-watchful officers caught on. The smile that came to his lips as he entered the dispensary was genuine, as he realized he'd take a certain perverse pleasure in fooling them as long as possible. It was too bad Axylel wasn't here to wager with him on their reactions.

The nebula that filled the flat viewscreens on the briefing room bulkheads was not officially designated as the Rose, though everyone called it that anyway. Dr. Roxanne Merkrates thought it was a very pretty picture, but gave it only a passing glance to a dozen different views as she took her seat at the room's long central table for the weekly briefing. She didn't suppose the pictures were up there for decor despite the impeccable aesthetic sense of the Tigris's captain. He still looked good framed by the glowing outline of the nebula as he took his seat at the head of the table. But then, Eamon Merkrates patrician features always looked good, as he knew so well.

Even though they'd argued part of the night away, he looked as fresh as though he'd slept with a clean conscience. Maybe he had. She had been working in the lab. After all she had to do something, and if he wouldn't-

She focused her gaze on the holoprojection of the galaxy that showed the current shapes and borders and overlapping territories of the interstellar powers hovering colorfully above the center of the table. There was the gold that marked the outline of the hundreds of worlds of the United Systems and the silver of the Bucon Empire. There was a tiny slice of rose pink for the guessed influence of the worlds beyond the Rose Nebula, the shrunken, ragged red blot that showed the estimated area currently under Trin domination and the blue blobs and dots showed suspected Pirate League influence. The Powers That Be didn't take up all that much space on the sparkling pinwheel-shape of the map. She was used to seeing this map at every meeting, and usually only paid attention to the shape of the red space. Today the familiar starfield reminded Roxy of a sparks flung up from a bonfire by huge storm surge of wind. She couldn't help but think of those sparks raining back down as the dead ashes of worlds.

The fanciful image chilled her, and she cleared her emotions and carefully kept her expression innocent of anything but alert respect as the Captain's gaze took in his senior officers. Eamon was all business all the time, and tended to come down hard on her when she behaved less than his estimation of professional while on duty. He didn't cut her any slack for her lack of Academy training, being Koltiri, or the fact that she was his wife. And he was right, of course. Only-

"Are you with us, Physician?"

The Captain's voice cut into her like a laser scalpel. When had that authoritative tone become irritating rather than reassuring? "Yes, sir," she answered, though she couldn't help but wonder how she'd given any indication that her attention was far from being at another damned boring meeting. She hadn't yawned, had she?

"Just checking." His glance cut to his second in command. "Go ahead, Commander Weaver."

Roxy folded her hands together in her lap, kept her gaze on the databoard she'd brought with her instead of the holomap, and simply tried to listen until her turn came. Maybe he wouldn't call on her, as he already knew he wasn't going to like her making either her information or her position public.

On one side of her sat the Felinid security chief, all slim and sleek and dangerous, making even the dull black of the MilService uniform they wore look good. On the other was big, burly, Bear O'Hare - whose daddy had been Ursid and whose momma had been careful. There were a lot of mixed matings in the United Systems, with its nearly eight hundred year history and huge population of worlds peopled by the diversity of humanoid lifeforms engendered by the Neshama Seedings. She was a product of one mixed mating, when a koltiri had been Bonded to a Terran. She knew she and Eamon were another mixed mating, even though the people born on his homeworld world rejected the very idea of the Neshama.

"Beyond the Rose," Commander Maura Weaver's words drew Roxy's attention only because that was the title of a song her sister had written. "Is unknown territory."

That one too, Unknown Territory. What was this, a staff meeting or a retrospective of Reine Shirah's greatest hits? Roxy did not crack a smile with the thought, but several people around her did. Such was the curse of being an empath in a good mood; it was catching.

The captain didn't notice. His attention was on his first officer as she continued. "Long range scout drones have shown a massive build up of Borderer ships on their - uh, border." There was faint laughter around the table. "It would be nice if we actually knew what the isolationists call themselves," Maura added after the room was quiet again. "It would help to not only know who they are, but what they're doing."

"Intelligence hasn't been able to provide any more than the drone data," Captain Merkrates told his officers. "But the Coordinated Services' Council has made the decision to put all long range patrol vessels on alert."

"Us," Bear O'Hare summed up Eamon's official statement. "We're on our way to the Rose." There was a certain eagerness in Bear's tone. Roxy understood. There were fewer combat assignments to go around lately, and the adrenaline rush of danger tended to be addicting.

Roxy glanced at the pretty pink and red projection of the Rose Nebula on the wall screens. "It's their border," she found herself saying, though the ship's Medical Officer had no business expressing anything but medical opinions in a briefing. "If they want to park their whole fleet on their side of it it's none of our business. It would be nice if they'd talk to us," she went on as all eyes looked her way. "We don't know what they look like or what they call themselves after fifty years of trying to get their attention. Why not send another ambassadorial mission instead of combat vessels? Haven't we got more important things to do than worry about some paranoid non-aligned aliens?" She knew she'd said too much. A good officer followed orders without questioning them and didn't offer opinions without being asked. She wasn't a very good officer. "I know, I know," she added before some other senior officer could point her faults out to her. "Stick to your job, Physician. Ours is not to reason why and this is a briefing room not the mess hall." She slouched down in her chair; not an easy position for such a tall woman to assume in a plasform chair that did its best to be comfortable at all times. She had to kick its control leg to get it to let her slump.

Eamon had steepled his fingers on the simulated wood tabletop, but was not feeling particularly annoyed as he gazed her way. He was feeling indulgent, which was ever so much more annoying to her - and he knew it. "Thank you for issuing your own reprimand, Roxy."

"Happy to save you the trouble, sir."

"Though perhaps you would care to tell us what you consider more important than defending the United Systems from possible invasion."

Roxy was unabashed at being put on the spot. She also could tell by the warning look he gave that he already regretted giving her permission to bring up her concerns so early in the briefing. She sat up straight, every bit of amused diffidence leached from her demeanor. It was the Physician who answered the Captain's question. "Sagouran Fever."

"Which is?" Dee Nikophoris of Science's urged. Dee already knew, she'd spent time in the lab with Roxy last night. Dee was a constant ally, but she also knew how to cover her tracks and her butt since she and Captain Merkrates weren't the best of friends.

Roxy glanced at the childhood friend who had ended up serving with her onboard the TIGRIS quite by accident. They made a good team. Dee was a chemist by trade, an anarchist by avocation. Her long dark hair was pinned up primly, her expression was bland, but her big, dark eyes held their usual wickedly amused gleam. They shared a brief nod. Roxy went into her portion of the briefing without having to refer to her datapad. "Sag Fever is weird. It is also fatal. One hundred percent fatal."

"Is that possible?" the first officer asked.

Roxy didn't answer Maura's question yet, but went on. "It also jumps species faster than any other pandemic disease yet encountered in the Systems. Technically, of course, the disease does not jump species, but adapts with amazing speed to every Engendered humanoid variant it has yet encountered." Dense annoyance was aimed her way by several members of the command staff, ones who had cultural and religious objections to Neshama Wave Theory. She was Koltiri of Koltir Prime, Engendered of the Second Wave Seeding. She knew what she knew and science backed up belief, though she wasn't about to get into a creationist debate right now. This was the briefing room, not the mess hall, as she'd said once this morning already. "The vector for Sagouran Fever is not known, though the first humanoid fatality we know of is a trader named Sagoura. About all that's known about the man is that he dealt in salvaged space junk and was a member of some crazy religious cult."

Of course, there were lots of those in the United Systems. Some would say that she was a member of the weirdest cult of all. The crew of the Tigris weren't interested in the biography of a dead man. They probably wouldn't even be interested in news of an epidemic, this was a combat ship. Eamon's impatient frown told her to get this over with. Maura Weaver tapped her fingers on the tabletop. Roxy tried to draw the senior officers' interest as she went on.

"The pattern of infection spread seems to trace back to a salvage belt near Bucon space WDS." She punched a button on her pad, and a spot on the holomap glowed green.