Melinda Snodgrass - Double solitaire

“I’ll snoop and poop with you.” Meadows was busying himself with the briefcase.

“Meadows, I’m a detective. Taking you along is like taking a fucking semaphore -”

Jay didn’t see which vial the gangly ace took, but suddenly there was a whirlwind, and blankets went sailing off the bunks like hysterical chickens. The little figure shrugged herself free of the cocooning blankets, and Jay felt his jaw drop.

Jet black hair fell like an ebony waterfall down her back. The black jumpsuit hugged every curve of her lovely body. The white yin/yang symbol on her chest drew the eye to her perfect breasts.

“You’re living inside Mark Meadows? Holy shit, I’m going to be a lot nicer now.”

“As we speak, our quarry eludes us,” she said in a soft, pretty voice. There was a hint of censure in the words, and the remark was offered with a modest dropping of the eyes.

“Uh… yeah, right. Who the hell are you?” Jay asked plaintively, as they stepped through the door.

“Isis Moon… Moonchild.”

Once in the corridor, Moonchild dimmed the lights. Shadows dripped from the walls. She stepped into one of them and promptly vanished. Jay briefly wondered how she’d feel about divorce work. He almost lost her several times, but each time a small hand reached out from the shadows, lightly touched his wrist, and led him on.

Down a left-branching corridor they heard voices: Zabb’s clear tenor, and Tachyon’s bell-like tones. Jay pressed himself against the wall and craned until he could peer around the doorjamb. It looked like an armory, with racks of weapons hung on the walls and several spacesuits hanging from hooks.

Tachyon was fiddling with the arm of a suit. She sighed, dropped it, and turned to face her cousin. “Are you still worrying about that damn throne? If it’s any comfort to you… I don’t want it.” She shook her head. “And Zabb, it’s over. Whether I want it or not, you can’t have it either.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve each made our choices. Mine was set fifty years ago when I went in pursuit of Ansata and the virus to try to prevent a holocaust. Your course was set five years ago when you betrayed your House and sold yourself to the Network. Takis may be a stop for each of us, but it can never again be home.”

“You’re the most self-righteous little vacu,” Zabb returned angrily. “You pretend it was necessary for you to deal with the Network in order to protect Takis. Abortion! It was self-interest, pure and simple. Why don’t you admit that all this altruism is really just a pose to cover your pathetic grandstanding for attention?

“You couldn’t hold your own in the true Takisian fashion – no aptitude for command, and no stomach for war. Even your science – you were a synthesizer, not an innovator. You didn’t invent the Enhancer project, you could only build on the work of others.

“You destroy everything you touch, Tis. Poor damned Ansata who carried the virus to Earth. If you’d let him carry out his mission, the death and suffering among those groundlings would have been much reduced. But you got to be a ministering power, the noble lord bountiful.

“And what about your own world? You damn near destroyed the family by your noble posturings. You left me to face our enemies.” Zabb ripped open his tunic, and revealed the left side of his body. It was a mass of puckered white scar tissue. Tach threw out a hand and backed away.

So far as Jay could tell, Zabb didn’t do a damn thing, but suddenly Tachyon threw her hands over her face, let out a scream, and collapsed.

“I win… and guess what? You lose.” Blaise’s voice held that excited, joyful lilt that always left Durg itching to slap him.

The effect it had on the Raiyis of House Vayawand could only be guessed at, for L’gura had himself well in hand. The strain of the past weeks had written their passing on his face. Where once he had been gaunt, the face was now skull-like, but Durg had to admire the force of will that kept the prince erect and serene even as he faced his executioners.

There was no hope of escape, and L’gura knew it. Those most loyal to him had long since been jumped and then killed or discredited by Blaise. The guards observing the tableau would not embrace death on behalf of this wounded wolf.

No blame could attach to the Raiyis for not suspecting, understanding, or knowing how to counter Blaise’s powers. The fatal error had been basing their test of wills on Blaise’s oratorical skills. L’gura should have selected a Takisian forum in which the native could excel. Instead the Raiyis had allowed Blaise (coached carefully by Durg) to goad him into a public debate and to make the throne the prize to be won.

Demagogue, thought Durg dreamily. It was a word without equivalent in Takisian, and Blaise had used this alien power to exhort and thrill until the members of House Vayawand were roaring their support and enthusiasm. A few hot and gusting words, and they fancied themselves the rulers of Takis. The decision of the House was plain – they wanted Blaise to lead them to this new order. But it would be Durg who would translate words into reality.

“You’re an excellent argument for the wisdom of a controlled breeding program,” said L’gura conversationally.

A flush blossomed in the boy’s cheeks, and Durg held his breath. The internal struggle was obvious. Reason conquered anger, and Blaise shrugged. “My dear old granddaddy used to say that one healthy outcross was worth a thousand line-bred fools. For once he was right about something.”

L’gura scanned the nobles arrayed around his desk. “You are all quite determined on this?”

Elidan nodded. “The Raiyis sighed and leaned back. “It can be painless,” Elidan said.

“No, I’d rather have it messy.” The sharp gray eyes were turned to Blaise. “You should have to clean up the chair.”

Durg moved, but he was too late to stop the flick of the forefinger across a seam on the arm of the chair. The wingback detonated, exploding L’gura’s head. Fragments, both organic and inorganic, pattered across their faces like a disgusting warm rain. The body collapsed forward, the ruined head continuing to bleed onto the surface of the desk.

With a jerk of his head Blaise indicated to Durg. The Morakh crossed to the chair and threw aside the body. Blaise followed and, swinging out the chair, seated himself. The Vayawand nobles watched in horrified fascination as blood and brains smeared into the boy’s dark red hair.

“Impressive, half-breed. But your mistake was assuming I would allow a mongrel like you to rule the House Vayawand,” Elidan said.

“I never assume anything, Elidan,” Blaise replied.

Several things happened very quickly. Blaise slumped, almost losing consciousness. Elidan grabbed the crystal wine goblet on the desk and shattered it. Durg signaled the guards, whose loyalty had been carefully purchased days before, and they, together with Durg, held the other nobles at gunpoint while Elidan proceeded to cut his throat with a jagged piece of glass.

Blaise was screaming. “No, no! He’s killing me! Ancestors, save me!”

When the windpipe was severed, Blaise again slumped, gripped the arms of the chair to still the shaking of his hands, and watched as Elidan choked and bubbled on the floor before him. A few more seconds and it was over. The shaken nobility of the House Vayawand eyed their creation, and Sekal slowly bowed to Blaise.

“Raiyis.”

Blaise accepted their homage with appropriate grace. Durg was relieved – it would have been so like the young monster to gloat. The men filed silently out of the office, and Blaise held out a hand to Durg. The Morakh assisted him to his feet.

“The hardest thing is enduring the pain… concentrating through it to time the return jump,” said Blaise as he shoved a toe under Elidan’s body and rolled him over. The neck wound yawned up at Durg like a ragged, toothless grin.