Patron of the Arts

“So am I. But I don’t think they’d do it from the dark. Well, maybe one . . . no, he’d switch control units on your sandcat and it would seal the doors and exhaust the oxy about fifteen kilometers out. Or something. Jesus, Diego, don’t you have any old enemies?”

“You don’t seem surprised that people would try.”

She rubbed her jaw as she got to her feet. “That’s life. And death. Some people buy what they want, some charm it, some build it. Some kill for it. Someone either wants me bad enough to void you, or there’s more to you than flackery.”

“Come on,” I said wearily. “Let’s get in where there are people.”

She limped along next to me and shook her head. “Well, I must say being around you is not dull. Why did you knock me out? Oh, never mind, I understand. There was no time to explain. Next time I’ll be more alert. It isn’t often I’m next to Ground Zero at an assassination.”

I looked at her in amazement “Does this happen around here often?”

“No You are the first assassination I know of.”

“Attempted assassination.”

“Yeah, that, too. Well, this isn’t exactly Fun City Park, but it’s not the Vault of Horror either. The people here feel strongly about things. I’ll have Dad’s agent get that dome sealed up and the damages paid.”

“There are two domes. One full of something wet.”

“Oh, dear. We’d better tell Maintenance. Come on, there’s a telecom in Flynn’s.”

She walked on ahead of me, then stopped to take a rock out of her boot. “You sure mess up a girl dragging her like that,” she said. “I’m bleeding in a couple of spots.”

“Better red than dead,” I said.

“Better bed than dead. Listen, Diego, let’s make that call and go over to the Guild for tonight, huh? I suddenly feel very interested in life-enhancing actions.” She looked up at me with a sudden grin. “Don’t get yourself killed, huh? I haven’t used you up, yet.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome. But don’t get a big head; I tell that to everyone who has failed an assassination assignation. You were a terribly uncooperative assassinee, Diego.”

“Goddamn, you are a cheerful demidead person.”

“Not me,” she grinned. “I am going to live forever and get the money-back offer on my geriatric treatments. Come on.”

I followed her, looking carefully into the various darknesses we passed. We made the call to Maintenance, bought a few drinks and evaded hands; all the while I rather nervously scrutinized everyone. We rented a new room for the night, this one guarded by a two-meter hulk who smiled at Nova as though he were a child and it was his birthday, and glowered at me as if I had taken away all the presents. Nova coaxed him into lending me a spare Colt laser that someone had forgotten. Even as we made love, with that special kind of feverish intensity that people have when life seems short, I knew where that weapon was every second.

In the morning I coded two messages and put them on the net that would move it around to the side facing Earth, or the synchronous satellite that was in equilateral orbit. They would be sent in tightbeam high-speed blurts to Earthcom, then down to the surface. When Huo received it with my Drop Everything Else colophon I expected he would do just that, and a reply should be back in a few days at the latest. The message to him was simple and short: Who is trying to kill me and why?

The other coded enquiry was to Sandler, my accountant. Earthside Thorne red herring. Am assassin target here. Investigate, inform care of Diego Braddock, Bradbury. I signed it “Brian Thorne.”

Now all I had to do was stay alive.

One of my first reactions was to grab a sandcat and head for some isolated knob and hole up, but my next thought-train said that might be just what they wanted. No witnesses, maybe not even a body. Who would miss one of Publitex’s flacks?

I dug into the gear I had left in Wootten’s guild locker and got out my own Colt laser. I’m fully aware that I am a hopeless romantic, but I didn’t want to be a dead romantic. I did a few fast draws from the molded