“They’re Finnvardians, mostly. Why?”
George sat up abruptly and reached for the comunit. “Let me check the database. I’ll bet you they’re free-birthers, and now they’re having to make rejuvenation drugs, and—” His voice dropped as he scanned the reference files. “Drat. We need a better database.”
“You need to mind your own business.” That was the leader of four men in hotel livery, who appeared in the doorway to Raffa’s bedroom. Another disadvantage of a good hotel is that anyone in the right uniform can go anywhere without being noticed. All were tall, pale-skinned, blue-eyed. “However, since you didn’t, I’m afraid you’re going to have an unfortunate accident.” He had a weapon; Ronnie stared at the black bore of it with the sick certainty that he was going to die. George had paused with his hand poised over the comunit keypad; Raffa simply sat there, looking like Raffa.
“It won’t work,” George said. “Someone will investigate.”
“A major industrial accident? Of course they will. But not your deaths individually. The failure of a field generator explains so much.”
Now Raffa moved, a convulsive twitch and a frantic glance at the p-suit hanging from its hook behind the door. The leader laughed, pure glee at her fear. Ronnie wanted to smash his face.
“Not a chance, rich girl. You and your gallant lovers will all die together, just like in a storytape.”
“You killed Ottala,” Raffa said. Calmly, Ronnie noticed, as if she were commenting on someone’s garden. You raise roses, don’t you? You killed Ottala, didn’t you?
“With great pleasure,” the leader said. “Would you like to know how?” His voice promised horrors; he longed to tell them.
“Not really,” Raffa said. “I’m sure it wasn’t a failure of the field generator.”
“I think you should know,” the leader said, with a nasty whine in his voice. Ronnie prayed to unnamed gods for a miracle. Raffa should not have to die hearing horrors.
“You’re not Finnvardian,” George said suddenly. Everyone’s attention shifted to him. He was looking at the comunit screen, and he read it aloud. “ ‘Finnvardians, dolicephalic, males generally between 1.8 and 2 meters in height, skin color index M1X1, eye color index blue/gray. Religious objections to contraception, plastic surgery for other than reconstruction after trauma’—but you’ve had plastic surgery, and you’re wearing contact lenses.” Now that George had said it, Ronnie could see that the leader’s eyes were a different blue, darker, intense.
“Nonsense,” the leader said. But two of his followers looked at him with obvious suspicion. “Not all of any human stock have blue eyes; they’re recessive.”
“The reference says, ‘Alone of human stocks, the severely inbred Finnvardians have eliminated dark eyes; the light blue or gray eye color has been stable for seventy generations, with the usual medical sequelae. Finnvardians therefore prefer to work and live underground, away from ultraviolet radiation that hastens blindness.’ Your eyes are dark,” George pointed out. “Your colored lenses make them dark blue, not Finnvardian blue. Furthermore, a Finnvardian should know that all Finnvardians have light blue eyes.”
“Is this true, Sikar?” asked one of the others. “You are one of us, aren’t you?” All three were looking at him now, light blue eyes narrowed, lips tight. The leader’s forehead gleamed in the light.
“Of course I’m one of you,” he said. “Who else can speak your obscure language—?” He stopped short, and flushed.
There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Ronnie wondered which deity he now owed for that miracle. If it was a miracle.
“Your language,” said the man to the leader’s right, thoughtfully. He glanced around the leader to one of the others. “Sounds good to me,” he said. The man on the left nodded, his hand slipping into a pocket of his uniform.
“No!” the leader said. “Take care of them first—then we’ll talk—”
“Talk is talk,” the man on his right said. And then he said something Ronnie couldn’t understand, Finnvardian apparently, and flung himself on the leader, who shot him. The shot didn’t make much noise, but the man yelled. Raffa rolled over the back of the couch, out of sight of the struggle. Another shot rang out. The struggling figures staggered across the room, screaming incomprehensible insults. Ronnie dodged the row, found Raffa behind the couch, and began to crawl cautiously toward the outer door. Maybe they would forget—
“Stop!” yelled someone. He stopped. Someone—perhaps that someone—had a weapon.
“No you don’t,” George said from the other side of the room; Ronnie looked up just in time to see the entire comunit, screen and all, hurtling toward the man with the gun, who shot it. A tremendous crash followed, spraying the whole room with broken glass and plastic. Water gushed from the ceiling, where something had hit a sprinkler control. Ronnie leapt up just in time to catch a blow to his head, but he was already in motion, and his head connected with someone’s stomach. That person grunted, and slid down; Ronnie stepped firmly where it would do the most good, ignoring the shriek of pain, and fended off another man’s assault with a bit of unarmed combat he’d learned in the Royals. George, he saw, was doing his best to bludgeon one of the attackers with the desk the comunit had been on.
Raffa took care of the last one, with the lamp off the end table. “I didn’t think a little more mess would matter,” she said. “And it was an ugly lamp.” And then she was in Ronnie’s arms, sobbing a little. He picked her up and carried her into the hall before she could cut her bare feet on the broken glass.
In the distance, he could hear alarms clanging and angry voices. George limped out into the hall, water dripping from his hair.
“He really isn’t a Finnvardian,” George said. “I have his lenses—look.” There on his palm were two contact lenses, bright blue.
“Is he dead?” asked Ronnie. “What about the weapon?”
“He’s dead,” said George. “One of the others stabbed him. I think it was a ceremonial Finnvardian gelding knife. His weapon’s right here—” He pulled it from his trousers pocket.
“Hold it right there!” From the end of the hall, two men in uniform pointed guns at them. “Drop that weapon! Get on the floor! Move!”
“But—but they did it,” George said.
“DROP THAT GUN! NOW!” George dropped the gun, shrugging at Ronnie. “GET ON THE FLOOR. FACEDOWN. NOW.”
“You don’t understand,” Ronnie said. “There are . . . spies or something in our room—in Raffa’s room. They attacked us. They did something to the field generator, and—”
“GET DOWN NOW!”
Raffa slipped out of his arms. “We might as well,” she said. “They aren’t going to listen until we do.”
In the event, they didn’t listen at all. Two dead men, in hotel uniforms, and two unconscious men in hotel uniforms . . . and the guests involved were rich young tourists from the inner worlds?
“How much did you offer them to have sex with you?” the policeman said, leaning over Ronnie.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Cecelia—so glad to see you!” The tall dark woman in swirling reds and purples reminded Heris of someone—she couldn’t think who.
“Marta! It’s been years!” Cecelia turned to Heris. “Raffaele’s aunt . . . Marta Saenz. So—they called you, too?”
“Not exactly.” Marta made a face. “Raffa sent me a message saying she was going to Patchcock with Ronnie and George, to follow up a mission for Bunny. I landed on Bunny, because as far as I’m concerned he had no business risking Raffa on any harebrained missions—and frankly, my dear, he was already scared out of his wits, because of Ottala—you did know about Ottala?”