John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

Sargos led his party to the still quaking death mound, searching for any Knights who might have survived. He came upon a full-helmed Knight who was buried up to his waist and bleeding profusely from his visor. A quick sharp jab with his poniard through the visor slit stilled the thrashing arms and he took the Knight's pistol, still cached in his white sash, to replace the one he had given away. He could hear the screams of dying men and horses all around. Sargos lifted the pistol and fired into the sky-today's slaughter was another sign of favor from the gods.

While the force he, Sargos, had destroyed today wasn't a Lance; there were enough dead Knights for three points-not counting oath-brothers, almost two hundred of the Black Brethren gone to Wind. The Tymannes would gain many pistols and much armor from this battle. For the rest of the day, his clansmen would be moving boulders and tree limbs until they had picked up every pistol, cask of fireseed, weapon and piece of useful armor this great victory had won them. Then they would cut the heads off of all the Knights and their oath-brothers, pluck out their eyes, cut off their noses and mount the heads on a forest of poles for the Order to find. For once, let the Black Knights choke back their tears!

Jorand Rarth felt weight return as the wheels of the air-car struck the landing stage and shut down the pseudo-grav. His driver opened the rear door and asked, "What should I do with the car, boss?"

Jorand looked around as though expecting a blue Metro or green Para-cop police car to materialize on the landing stage. Yesterday afternoon he had been forced to flee his own tower just minutes before a squad of Para-time Police raided the place. Now there was a warrant for his arrest and the cover he had so elaborately devised a century ago was gone.

"The police should be able to ID it before long, so drop it off at a public tower and meet me at Constellation House in two hours. We can steal a new air-car out of the parking lot if we need one."

The driver nodded and took off. Jorand stepped into the lifthead of Hadron Tharn's penthouse; he keyed in his password and pressed his thumb on the thumblock. The lift door rose behind him to cut off the view of Dhergabar City under a winter sky as bright and blue, and as coldly unsympathetic, as Paratime Police Chief Verkan Vall's eyes.

One level down, the lift door dropped again, letting Jorand out into the maroon-carpeted entry hall of Hadron Tharn's private quarters. A robot rolled forward to take Jorand's coat. Behind it rolled another robot, holding a tray with hot spiked simmer root in a silver cup. Jorand took the cup triggering the robot's vocal circuits.

"Citizen Hadron Tharn is waiting to see you in the lounge."

Jorand mumbled an automatic thank you in return, which told more about his prole origins than he liked known. He had spent decades setting up his First Level Citizen identity and had lived it for close to a century. Maybe he'd gotten too fat and lazy. Jorand would need all his old skills and moxie to survive this fracas.

A century ago he had been the head of an underground gambling syndicate in Novilan City. While all the First Level Citizens' children become Citizens, proles had to qualify by passing an intelligence and general psych test. Proles could be adopted and made Citizens, but even so they must pass the tests. The problem was that few Proles received a First Level education.

Jorand had tried with tutors, but hadn't liked the hard work. Instead he had searched for a decade to find a compulsive gambler within the Bureau of Identification. It hadn't been easy because the Bureau of Psychological Hygiene made periodic sweeps of the Records Division of the Bureau of Identification to keep fraud to a minimum.

When Jorand had his mark hooked and gaffed, the 'disappearance' of a respectable Citizen and the substitution of Jorand's DNA record for his had been effected. No one had been the wiser for ninety-eight years-until yesterday.

Jorand didn't have the time, or the patience, to set up another false ID, so he had no other choice but to go outtime. With his usual contacts under suspicion, he would have to use his influence in the Opposition Party. Influence he had spent decades building with heavy Party donations and conscientious attendance at boring political meetings.

Jorand had also been a boss in the Organization, a criminal syndicate that had kidnapped outtime peoples and sold them at high profits on other time-lines. Since most of these outtimers had been victims of wars or famines, he'd been pleased to arrange their sale to those who could make good use of their labors. After all, the outtimers gained their lives while he gained a fair return on his investment.

Besides, none of those outtimers would face anything Jorand hadn't faced himself during his childhood on Fifth Level Industrial Sector, where his own father had sold him to a slum overlord for drug money. Jorand had been raised by a man who had bought him as a slave and raised him to second-in-command of his own theft syndicate.

Now as a member of the Organization's second level, Jorand knew just how 'involved' in the Organization many of the top politicos of the Opposition Party had become. Unfortunately, the Paratime Police had put his branch of the Organization out of business-and his boss had been detained and never heard of again. There were tales that he'd committed suicide while under Paratime Police interrogation. Recently, Jorand had heard a new rumor that the Organization was back in business, but no one had contacted him, or he wouldn't be here trying to cash in on that information-regardless of Citizen Tharn's feelings on the subject.

Fortunately, as a member of Tharn's Opposition Action Team, he hadn't even had to twist Tharn's arm for a private audience. Jorand had almost been looking forward to the day when the Action Team discovered they had a prole among their membership. Despite all their egalitarian cant, he had heard enough prole jokes to know their true sympathies. It had been his private joke, one that kept him awake through their interminable meetings. Too bad he would not be there when they learned the truth about him.

Jorand gulped the last of his simmer root as he entered the Blue Lounge. He thought of ordering another, then decided to wait since he would need a clear head for today's meeting.

"Welcome, Citizen Jorand," Hadron Tharn said, stepping lightly toward him. "I trust you had a good journey." Unfortunately, the warm greeting didn't extend to Tharn's chilly eyes.

"Except for the stratospheric winds, yes. That's why I'm late."

"It hardly matters. Would you care for another drink?"

Jorand shook his head and sat down in his usual red-leather chair. The only other person in the room was Warntha Swam, Tharn's bodyguard and who-knew-what-else. Warntha was in his usual stance, hands clasped behind his back and eyes roaming the room, and in his usual position guarding Hadron Tharn's back.

Citizen Tharn gave one of his famous grins, but the blue eyes were as icy as an arctic gale. "What can I do for you Citizen?"

Jorand didn't bother to return the smile. "I'm in trouble and I need your help."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Citizen, but why me?"

"Call it a return on a three million credit investment. I need to go out-time."

Warntha visibly tensed. "The only reason I'm not having you thrown out of here," Tharn said, "is that you've been extremely helpful in the past. I don't know what your problem is, but I suggest you go elsewhere for its solution."

"My rooms have just been sealed by the Paratime Police and by now I suspect I must be high up on their most-wanted list."

"You have my sympathies, of course." Tharn held both hands out to express his helplessness. "However, my brother-in-law, Verkan Vail and I have an unspoken accord; he doesn't ask me for favors and I don't ask him for any."