Mercy Kill Page 11

  He shrugged. “I’m not, anymore. I was famous when I was a boy.”

  “So the encyclopedias tell me. Come in.” She gestured, then preceded him into the apartment.

  Face took a look around, without seeming to, as they moved along a broad hall, lined in what smelled like real wood, with a dozen or more doors leading to one side or the other at intervals. There were blank spots on the walls where frames or monitors had once hung—someone had removed a lot of artwork from this place recently. A fine, nearly uniform layer of dust on horizontal surfaces said it had been some time since the place had been tended. At last, Zehrinne led him through a door into a broad chamber lit by natural sunlight pouring in through an oversized window; the view showed skytowers and the ceaseless airspeeder traffic of Coruscant outside. The room itself was almost devoid of furniture; there were two stuffed chairs and a low table between them, an adjustable upright chair that looked as though it normally held dental patients, an easel and canvas in front of it. That was all.

  Zehrinne took one of the stuffed chairs, gestured to the other. “It’s the housekeeper’s day off. Her lifetime off, actually. I fired her. And the rest of the staff. Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Oh, no, thank you.” Face took the other chair and looked at the canvas. It was a painting in traditional materials, a nearly holorealistic portrait of a female Naboo cliff diver, her arms spread as if in flight, in mid-plummet. It was not quite done; details of the bay in the background were vague around the painting’s edges, and the woman’s face, other than her black eyes, had not yet been detailed. The almost-featureless face was somehow a bit unsettling.

  “Well, I’m having something. Oh, Vacuum …” Zehrinne stared at a side door leading from the chamber.

  That door slid aside, revealing a protocol droid. He had once, perhaps even recently, been shiny gold, but his metal skin was now decorated with specks and blobs and swirls of color—paint, Face assumed, from the old-fashioned palette and brushes resting on the small table.

  The protocol droid said nothing.

  Zehrinne smiled. “Wine. Red. Something common.” She glanced back at Face. “Nothing? Are you sure?”

  “Thank you, I’ve just had lunch.”

  “Oh, well.” She waved, and the droid withdrew.

  Face gave her a curious look. “Vacuum is his name?”

  “Sound doesn’t carry in a vacuum … and the first thing I did with him a week ago when I bought him was disconnect his vocal synthesizers. He has to write notes or send visual messages. Oh, there’s an emergency override, of course … but for now, blessed, blessed silence.”

  Face thought about it. “You know, I bet you could sell a million of those units, even aftermarket, to customers who’ve had long experience with protocol droids.”

  “I’ll have to look into that. I’ll need a career. I own these quarters outright … but I can’t afford the property taxes on them.”

  “You were … unexpectedly candid about your domestic situation when we commed you. But even then it was clear that there were some things you’d only say in person.” Face gave her a sympathetic look.

  “I’m not paranoid … but he is a powerful man with his fingers in everything. I don’t think he intends me any specific harm, but I’m definitely going to give him a beating, and I see no reason for him to anticipate any of it.”

  Face nodded.

  Zehrinne burst out into laughter. “You are an actor.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your face, your expression. It said, Please go on, and I’m not surprised that you’re going to give him a beating, he deserves it, and You’re very attractive, but for whatever reason I’m not going to make a move at this time, and about a dozen other things. All without words.”

  Face felt himself redden. “I’m not really trying to play you. It’s just—”

  “A lifetime of habit?”

  “Something like that. Please, continue what you were telling me over the comm, and I’ll try to be less …”

  “Manipulative. Don’t bother trying. You probably can’t help yourself.”

  They were delayed by the return of Vacuum, who, silently and with a resentful stiffness unusual even for a protocol droid, placed her glass of wine on the table beside her, then withdrew.

  Zehrinne sipped it while she considered her words. “Stavin and I met about thirty years ago. The New Republic had taken Coruscant five years earlier. I remember the Death Seed stories were almost all you ran across on the holonews. I was eighteen, and making my living as a model. He was thirty, a captain in the army. Not handsome exactly, but he looked great in a uniform, and he was ambitious and smart. Old-fashioned and courtly and persistent, and for whatever reason he decided he was going to make me fall in love with him and marry him, not necessarily in that order. And he did.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “And it was good for years. He didn’t make me stop modeling, didn’t ask me to, but to me it was a job, not a calling. And being the spouse of an ambitious military officer can be a job, too, and if you’re good at it, you can help him do a lot better than he would do by himself. Being social, making connections, urging promotions … And I did get good at my job.”

  Face frowned. “And no trouble in all that time?”

  “Plenty of trouble. But the usual husband–wife trouble. Things like, we weren’t entirely compatible genetically, so we couldn’t have children without major medical involvement, and he wasn’t willing to do that. Or adopt.” She sipped at her wine and looked out through the window. “Next week, I think I’m going to go out and adopt. Just me. No other voices in the decision.”

  “When you can’t afford taxes on your home?” Face regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. It wasn’t any of his business. But the compulsive planner in his makeup couldn’t quite be silenced.

  She gave him an unfriendly smile. “See, you just became a voice.”

  “Sorry. I’m clearly a hypocrite. I adopted my wife’s daughter. So I clearly don’t even know what side of your argument I’m taking.”

  “That’s better. Where was I?”

  “Mostly good years.”

  “Right. That brings us up to our twelve-year mark. He was Colonel Thaal then, a general’s right-hand man, being groomed for promotion as much as you can be in what was mostly a peacetime army. And the best possible thing happened, from the perspective of an officer looking for advancement. The Yuuzhan Vong invaded and started killing everybody.” She gave Face a carefree look.

  “Now who’s being manipulative?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You throw out a line like that, suggesting that the most devastating war in civilized history was something to be celebrated, and give me a coy look to see how I react to it …”

  She smiled. “I can’t help it. I was born to cause trouble. For thirty years of marriage, I had to suppress that instinct. Now I’m free. Anyway … Stavin was his usual efficient, dependable, slightly dull self through the first half of the war … and then the Yuuzhan Vong started getting closer and closer to Coruscant. He packed me off to safety on Denon. When the final assault came here on Coruscant, he somehow persuaded his superiors to let him go to Vandor-Three and build a resistance cell there. Which he did pretty well. Those were his original Pop-Dogs, and he became a hero.”

  “Still so far so good.”

  “No, that was when our relationship died. I just didn’t know it at the time. The war ended, Coruscant was Vongformed to more of the wilderness it used to be, evacuees started moving home, Stavin returned … and we weren’t a couple anymore. I mean, we talked about it. He laid out his position clearly. He said he owed me a lot of his career advancement, he’d stay married to me, half of what was his was mine, he wouldn’t do anything to embarrass me publicly … but we were done. He said it was all his fault, but he didn’t want to try to fix things between us.”

  Face leaned forward, certain that he was getti
ng near an answer that might be useful to him. “He never discussed the reason?”

  “No. But I figured it out over time. I was still connected to his entire social life, after all.” She shrugged. “He liked younger women.”

  “As … ordinary a reason as that?”

  “Yes. After our unofficial split, he found a mistress, barely twenty years old. He was with her for about ten years, then set her up with a nice little home, a nice little business, a threat to take them away from her if she caused trouble, and he took a new mistress, age nineteen. That was five years ago. The way I figure it, she has maybe five years to go before he drops her, too.”

  Face blinked, considering. “Maybe less.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a feeling I have.” Face tried to sell that lie with an earnest expression. “But something has changed between you and the general more recently, correct? Which is why you’re facing tax payments, why you fired his household staff?”

  “He began divorce proceedings. And all his assets are frozen, unavailable to me, until the proceedings are resolved.” She waved a hand at her surroundings. “Fortunately, title in this place came to me years ago, after he moved out. If I have to, I can sell it, get a less expensive place, live on the difference. But I’d hate to do that. I love this place.”

  “Did he say why he was divorcing you?”

  “He hinted that it was so he could marry his current girl. But I don’t believe that. I think she’s a short-timer just like all the women in his life are. I think it’s …” She paused to consider her words. “One of the reasons he’s such a good organizer is that he has a horror of unfinished business. Loose ends. It preys on him, makes it hard for him to sleep. I think that suddenly I became unfinished business.”

  “So he had to get his domestic life straightened out before … before what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Face suppressed a smile. Their entire conversation had told him almost nothing—just that Stavin Thaal liked younger women and that something big would be happening soon, something that made the compulsive organizer desperate to tie off loose ends.

  It wasn’t a big fact, it wasn’t anything that would convince a jury of anything. But it convinced Face. The something big could be anything, but it probably had to do with career-changing plans … plans that might involve an act of treason against the Alliance.

  No, the conversation had told him something else, too, something he had to check into. “Can you tell me the names of his mistresses?”

  “Of course. In fact …” She slid open a small drawer on the table’s underside and withdrew a datapad. She flipped it open, typed and scrolled for a few moments, then snapped it shut again. “You’ll be getting full contact information for them any second now.”

  “Much appreciated.” He stood. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re being quite generous with the general. If I had treated Dia like the general treated you, she’d borrow an X-wing, take to the skies, and burn me to a cinder.”

  “Tell her I like her style. Vacuum will show you out.”

  Back in his home, also a high-rise apartment but far more modest—and cheerful—than Zehrinne’s, he sat in his study and began looking for information on the HoloNet.

  Information on Cadrin Awel, now age thirty-five, originally from Vandor-3. As a teenager, she’d been a singer, winner of local talent contests, unable to make herself noticed in the much vaster market of nearby Coruscant. She and several family members and friends had camped out for two years in an unoccupied region of Vandor-3 and had eluded notice by the Yuuzhan Vong. For ten years after the war, her movements were largely unrecorded. A few years ago, just prior to the start of the Second Galactic Civil War, she had bought a large rural property on her homeworld and had set up a sort of boot camp where city folk, mostly from Coruscant, could learn nature skills. The advertising and promotional materials for Cadrin’s Sanctuary mentioned her years of living off the land during the Yuuzhan Vong War but not her relationship with General Thaal. A brief news entry from two years ago indicated that she had married one of her fellow wartime survivors. Holos and stills of Cadrin showed a pretty, fair-skinned, fair-haired woman with an athlete’s build.

  Information on Keura Fallatte, now age twenty-four. Born on Tatooine, she excelled at engineering and mechanical work and, according to records, left home at age sixteen to live the life of a spacer. Three years later, she left her employer and moved into a trendy Coruscant hostel. After the end of the Second Galactic Civil War—and, Face noted after a cross-check, within a week of Thaal’s promotion to head of the army—she relocated to the best hostel in Ackbar City, Vandor-3. But another check indicated that she was no longer there. She had left the hostel mere weeks ago, checking out and leaving no forwarding information. A concierge Face spoke to, and who was more than willing to accept a HoloNettransmitted tip, said she was happy and excited during her departure … but closemouthed. Face could find no trace of her current whereabouts.

  Face wrote a brief account of Zehrinne’s information and his preliminary investigation into the fates of the two mistresses for the Wraiths. He included no orders. The Wraiths would know what to do with the facts. He encrypted the report, installed and concealed it within a datapad game, and transmitted it.

  Then he wrote another report, encrypted it, and transmitted it to the Quarren Eye, the yacht Borath Maddeus had supplied him with, for retransmission elsewhere.

  Finally, his day’s work done, he quit the study and moved out to the tiled dining area of his living chamber. His wife, Dia, and her daughter Adra were there already, chatting, paying occasional attention to news feeds scrolling across their datapad screens. They were so alike: green Twi’lek women, below average height but muscled like sand panthers. Dia was still in the snug blue civilian pilot’s uniform of the commercial air-and-space service where she was a partner; Adra wore a jumpsuit that was a riot of green and orange stripes and zigzags.

  Face’s approach was so silent that neither noticed until he was almost at the table. Both turned to look at him and, seeing the expression on his face, fell silent.

  He turned to Dia. “I promise I will never make you so mad that you borrow an X-wing, take it up, and use it to burn me to a cinder.”

  “Smart of you.” She gestured at the third chair. “Whose turn is it to cook?”

  “Yours.”

  “We’ll order something.”

  He sat and turned to his daughter. “And you, young lady … Beware of older military officers who chase you when you’re a teenager. They’ll just dump you when you turn thirty.”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Dad, I hate it when you bring work home.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MULVAR SENSOR STATION, IMPERIAL-CONTROLLED SPACE, OUTER RIM

  19 ABY (25 Years Ago)

  “You. Stupid.”

  Piggy looked up from his task, mopping the last portion of this corner of the station’s main yard. He was surrounded by wire-mesh chairs and tables, as well as now spotless flooring of white sheet duraplast decorated at intervals with the gearlike symbol of the Empire. At this late hour the area was almost deserted. Other than Piggy, only one man was present. He was an officer, crisp and neat in his gray uniform, nursing a last cup of caf at one table.

  Using his mop for leverage, Piggy scooted his bucket to within two meters of the speaker, a leathery, gray-haired man of advancing years. Piggy grunted a nonverbal interrogative.

  The officer glanced at him and sighed as if despairing of being able to accomplish anything. “You understand Basic?”

  Piggy nodded, grunted.

  “Good. New task.” The man pointed up—not at the star-filled sky, but at the top rim of wall surrounding the base. The wall was a monolithic run of permacrete, topped by an irregular layer of what looked like white gravel and powder.

  But where the officer pointed, below the layer of white, a pool of darkness had oozed two meters down the wall, marring the s
urface’s otherwise perfect cleanliness. “See that? I want that cleaned. Right now.”

  Piggy allowed himself a tremble. He gestured imploringly at the officer, then gestured more wildly, hands down and then rising abruptly, spreading apart, miming some great upheaval. He punctuated his move with shrill grunts.

  The officer shook his head with forced patience. “No. We turn off the mines and their sensor triggers while you’re up there. You climb Tower Three, show the guard there that you’re going out on the wall. He knows what you’ll be there for. He’ll switch things off while you work and on again when you return.”

  Piggy offered up a few more mock-whimpers. Then, under the unrelenting stare of the officer, he allowed his shoulders to slump. He picked up his bucket, not allowing it or the mop to drip on his perfect floor, and walked to the door at the base of Guard Tower Three.

  The officer was as true as his word. The enlisted man on duty at the tower’s summit barely looked up from his bank of infrared-equipped holocam monitors when Piggy arrived. Nor did the first meter of wall explode under Piggy’s feet when he stepped out on it.

  Piggy situated himself above the stain and lay down on his belly, feet stretching out over the jungle beyond the walls and head protruding over the close-cropped grass within them. He got to work with his mop.

  It had taken a couple of days to work out the base’s security routine and come up with this approach. A frail duraplast egg and a ridiculously oversized slingshot, built and mounted on a stand in his tiny worker’s quarters, had allowed him to launch a payload of fast-growing but harmless fungus against the wall top the previous evening. Now that fungus, touched by the chemicals running from Piggy’s mop, sizzled, died, and dropped almost instantly off the wall, raining in sheets onto the ground.

  Below and off to the left, the leathery officer appeared to be satisfied with Piggy’s progress. He drained the last of his caf, stood, and began his walk back to the officers’ quarters.