Worlds of Honor

illuminated display which only she could see appeared to float before her, and she felt a glow of satisfaction as she carefully checked its icons. The closest thermal signature was fifteen meters in front of the target, and there was no one behind them for at least eighty meters. That was more than enough for her purposes, and she smiled slightly. The target's habit of taking the same route from the Palace back to Admiralty House every single time had made planning ever so much simpler.

Her left hand made a peculiar little twisting gesture, and a small gray tube, cross section thinner than a drinking straw, slid into her hand as she took three larger strides and closed the distance to the commander. One more stride to her left, and her right shoulder jostled Marquette ever so lightly as she stepped past her. The officer's head snapped around, eyebrows rising in surprise at the sudden contact, for she'd never suspected that anyone was behind her.

Perfect, the unobtrusive woman thought.

'Oh, I'm so sorry!' she apologized, and her left hand came up. Marquette didn't see it until the last instant, and even then, no warning bells rang until the gray tube hissed and sent an invisible burst of precisely designed nanotech biochines straight up her nostrils. She heard the sound, then, and her eyes began to widen in shock, but she never felt a thing . . . until the terrible, utterly incapacitating agony as the tiny machines created what all but the very closest of autopsies would insist was a natural cerebral hemorrhage.

The unobtrusive woman didn't even pause as the commander went down in a boneless heap. There was no need. Her nannies had already done their jobs; now they were busy dissolving into odds and ends of 'blood protein' that would pass any scientific examination. They would even have the right genetic markers, because the biolab which had built them had been provided with tissue samples from the target's BuMed records to use for building blocks.

Confident in the quality of her own work, the assassin neither shortened nor lengthened her stride. She simply walked away, like any other stroller in the park, without even a smile to betray her satisfaction with a job well done.

'You're certain you got all of it?' the elegant man asked.

'Positive, My Lord,' the man in the Palace Guard Service uniform assured him. 'The hard copy was exactly where we thought it would be, and I vacuumed every bit of it out of her electronic system, as well. It's gone. Or, at least, if it still exists anywhere, no one else will ever be able to find it if I can't.'

The elegant man frowned ever so slightly at that, for he hated qualifiers. On the other hand, his minion had a habit of succeeding at even the most difficult tasks. He also had the reach and the avenues of information, both official and private, to make good on his boast. And truth to tell, it was better to work with people forthright enough to make qualifying admissions rather than promise more than they could truly deliver.

The PGS man only stood there, gazing calmly at his employer, as if he knew precisely what thoughts were flowing through this mind, and the elegant man smiled.

'Excellent. I won't forget this,' he promised, and walked away with a nod.

FIVE

<See over there? To the right?> 

Seeker of Dreams looked in the indicated direction as he and Leaf Stalker paused in the fork of a tree. The Bright Water hunter had volunteered to escort Seeker of Dreams to the gathering place of the humans who watched over the People, and Seeker of Dreams appreciated his kindness. The other's mind glow told him they were kindred souls, but though Leaf Stalker felt a sort of wistful envy of his quest, the hunter did not share it. He knew more of humans than many of the People, and he spoke often with the People who had bonded with them, yet he lacked that need, that urgent hunger to seek out the human mind glow, which drove Seeker of Dreams.

And he is wise not to seek the bond without it, Seeker of Dreams thought, and it was his turn to feel a wistful envy, for Sings Truly was correct. Only one driven by a need he could neither master nor resist would choose the path he had, for he was young. It was almost certain that the dream he sought would send him to his death before half his allotted turnings were sped, and he felt a sharp flicker of sorrow for all the other things he would never see and experience. As Leaf Stalker did not share his own quest, so Seeker of Dreams would not share the slow, sweet turnings—the mate and kittens, the snow times, and mud times, and green, drowsy times—that the hunter would know.

<Do you see it?> Leaf Stalker asked again, and Seeker of Dreams looked more carefully, then flicked his ears in assent. They were too distant to make out many details, but a straight, sharp edge of green, darker than the leaves about them, stood out against a bright patch of sky, and something about it prodded at his memory. Not of anything he had ever seen with his eyes, but of something from the memory songs. . . .

<It is the roof of the central nest of Death Fang's Bane's Clan's range,> Leaf Stalker told him almost reverently.

<Truly?> 

<Truly. I come here often—sometimes I have spent full days watching over them.> The hunter sighed, and flicked his tail in perplexity. <Yet there remain so many things I do not understand at all, or understand only a little, as a kitten might. Even those who have bonded find much about the two-legs—the humans—impossible to comprehend. They embrace many concepts so strange to us that not even those who have learned the meanings of their mouth sounds can explain them to us. They try, and with each turning we creep a little closer to the quarry of knowledge, yet I often think we willnever trulyunderstand the two-legs. Perhaps— > the hunter turned his head to gaze directly at Seeker of Dreams <—you will prove my fear unfounded. I hope you may, Seeker of Dreams.> 

<I will certainly try, Leaf Stalker,> Seeker of Dreams promised almost humbly, and Leaf Stalker bleeked a quiet laugh.

<Only taste our mind glows, little brother! Here we cling, like two decrepit old elders peering into the future! Come! I will race you to the river, and we will let the future see to itself. After all— > the hunter was already streaking down the picket wood branch, but his laughing mind voice carried clearly <—the future always does!>

'I still don't like it,' Henry Thoreau muttered, but this time he was careful to keep his voice so low not even Krogman could have heard it—had he been there. Which he wasn't. The big man snorted at the thought, for it was far too late to be worrying over what he liked or disliked. An ancient proverb about burning bridges flickered through his brain, but he paid it scant heed. He had no attention to spare from his present occupation.

No one looking at him would have guessed his nerves were twisted cable tight as he sat on the public bench and scanned a hardcopy newsfax. The remains of a simple but tasty lunch from a vendor at the corner lay on the table before him, along with a tall glass of lemonade, and he casually checked his watch as he turned a 'fax page.

The shady park adjacent to the Sphinx Forestry Service's HQ was a pleasant place for a leisurely lunch,