Weis, Margaret - Star of the Guardians 03 - King's Sacrifice by Weis Margaret

Author:Weis, Margaret [Weis, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Science Fiction, Fiction, General, Science Fiction; American
ISBN: 9780553763447
Publisher: Spectra
Published: 1991-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

How long do you stay fresh in that can?

The Cowardly Lion to the Tin Man, from The Wizard of Oz

Maigrey ordered drinks: a vodka martini, straight up, olive, not a twist, for herself, water for Agis (Sagan's men, like Sagan himself, did not consume alcohol), a pot of hot tea for Brother Daniel, and an impossible-to-pronounce concoction for the half-breed.

"The waiter will bring them," said the hostess. "Anything else I can do for you?"

Maigrey assured her there wasn't, sank back into the sofa cushions, thinking that a martini would be extremely welcome, wishing she could enjoy it. She watched idly the assassin flick through images on the vidscreen, switching from one table to another, from one face to another, with a rapidity that made her dizzy.

At last he grunted—this seemed to be his primary form of communication—and swiveled the computer screen around for her to view.

"This good man, lady-mine," he said, having undoubtedly come up with that appellation from hearing Agis refer to her as "my lady."

"He do work for Sagan Lord."

Maigrey saw, by the white light of the globe on his table, a human male of indeterminable age—an old thirty or a young fifty. He was completely bald, his face and scalp were mottled with white splashes—acid burns, Maigrey recognized. Dark, brooding eyes were almost hidden in the shadow of an overhanging forehead. He had a drink on the table in front of him. Two hands rested near the glass. One hand was made of flesh and bone and blood. The other was metal.

"Cyborg," said Sparafucile.

"What percentage?"

"Over seventy. Left side. Hand, leg, foot, face, skull, ear, eye."

"A class job. I wouldn't have guessed the face. Why didn't he get a natural hand to match?"

"That hand of his—special design. Does many special things, lady-mine. And then, it is his way. He does not try to hide what he is."

"No," Maigrey murmured. "He flaunts it, in fact. He looks promising, but he's not for hire. His light's not green. Obviously, he's not in need of work."

"Him never in need. " Sparafucile grinned. "People come to Xris. He not go to people. But cyborg always willing to listen."

"Xris, you said his name was."

"Xris."

Maigrey reached out, touched a button, saw the cyborg's gaze shift, focus on the screen before him. Otherwise, he did not move.

"I'd like to buy you a drink," Maigrey said.

The cyborg's hand, the real one, shifted to the glass in front of him.

"Thanks, sister," he said in a voice that had a faint mechanical tinge to it, "but I haven't finished this one yet."

"Too bad. If you change your mind, I'm in the upper room," replied Maigrey with a smile.

The glittering eyes were momentarily hooded. The cyborg lifted his drink, drained it in a gulp, and rose to his feet.

Maigrey removed her portable computer linkup from its case, connected it with the computer aboard her spaceplane.

"Sagan's files. Mercenaries," she commanded.

The computer complied.

"Xris, cyborg."

The computer brought up the file swiftly. Maigrey studied a long list of references, then read the single-sentence remark— Sagan's personal comment—at the end.

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