conversation.
And finding Justin Zyrr had been as difficult. From one of his associates, he learned that Zyrr had visited the Indigo Salt Flats and wandered about for a while. Otherwise, he had been in and out of Mount Royal on such an irregular schedule that Dover had not been able to cross his path.
Therefore, Padraic had been astonished when he received a polite letter from Zyrr asking if Dover would call on him early that evening. For a moment, Dover had panicked. What if Zyrr
Then he'd reassured himself. How could Zyrr know anything? They had been careful. The receiver had disintegrated on impact as planned; Dover had destroyed the transmitter himself. As panic ebbed, Dover realized that a golden opportunity had been given to him. He would be alone with Zyrr—at Zyrr's own request.
As he inspected his uniform before the meeting, Dover constructed his cover story. He would stick to the truth for openers. Zyrr had summoned him to his apartment, then he had asked Dover to participate in some perversity.
Running his tongue over his lips, Dover toyed with his options. He could say that Zyrr asked him to acquire the services of one of the more notorious courtesans. Or he could say that Zyrr had propositioned him. Padraic smiled cruelly as he considered how he would feign reluctance to discuss the encounter, then reveal Zyrr's unspeakable wishes.
Of course, at some point during the encounter as reported by Padraic Dover, Zyrr would have become violent. Dover would have been forced to defend himself—for once he was glad that Zyrr was such a big man; it would make his own use of deadly force understandable.
Elizabeth was a sweet, compassionate girl. Surely she could be manipulated to take pity on a shocked and horrified member of her own Guard. At this point, Dover's thoughts slid into pure, improbable fantasy. He was imagining Elizabeth's tearful but romantic marriage proposal when his chronometer chimed, reminding him that his destiny was only moments from beginning.
Pressing the call buzzer, he was somewhat surprised when Zyrr answered the door himself. One of the holes in his plan had been what to do about Zyrr's valet. He had resolved somewhat reluctantly (for double murder weakened his story of indignant outrage) that the man must also die.
'Major Dover,' Zyrr nodded greeting, motioned Dover into the apartment.
Dover followed with alacrity, sizing up both his opponent and the sparsely furnished living quarters. Not even the smallest noise betrayed the presence of another person and he began to hope that they were indeed alone.
'I've taken the liberty of dismissing my valet so that we can talk in private.' Zyrr looked unwontedly serious. 'I must ask you to swear by our shared birth world that nothing we discuss goes beyond this room.'
'I so swear,' Dover replied promptly, wondering if his guesses could have been correct and Zyrr required something illicit of him.
His initial plan had been to kill Zyrr immediately and then fill the remaining time with setting the stage for the 'seduction.' Now curiosity got the better of him. He permitted Zyrr to motion him to a chair and watched attentively as the Queen's fiance took his own seat on the sofa next to a battered, rather ugly cream and grey throw pillow.
'I would like to speak with you about certain events on the day of King Roger's death,' Zyrr began.
Dover felt a surge of terror, but kept his expression neutral.
'I understand that you were on duty at the chalet when the King was getting ready to go out skiing.' Zyrr paused long enough for Padraic to manage a stiff nod. 'Captain Adderson, who was also on duty that day, recalls that you ran the diagnostic on the ski set the King had brought with him.'
Dover's thoughts raced in circles as he tried to reconcile the content of this interview with his glorious fantasies of only moments before. What had Seltman told him to say if questioned? The words had been drilled into him before the accident, they must be there . . .
He heard his own voice, sounding flat and wooden: 'Yes, I ran the diagnostic. According to the read-out, the grav ski set was unreliable.'
Although it might be considered a breech of protocol, he rose to his feet. He could not kill Zyrr from across the room. The death blow must be dealt hand-to-hand, otherwise his tale of an over-strong reaction to a physical advance would not stick.
Blithely unaware of his own danger, Zyrr continued:
'I ran a diagnostic on that very ski set myself,' he said, 'and found nothing at all wrong with it. In fact, it was newly purchased equipment, fresh from the factory.'
Padraic's wooden voice answered, his mind intent on crossing the few remaining steps: 'I only did my duty, Sir. According to the read-out the diagnostic tool gave me, the grav unit was malfunctioning.'
'Perhaps your diagnostic tool was in error,' Zyrr said, sounding almost relieved. 'Please relax, Major. I mean you no harm.'
It never reached his target. In a sudden fury of spitting, hissing grey-and-cream fur, the ragged throw pillow resolved itself into the attacking form of a thin, but still deadly treecat.
'Monroe!' Zyrr shouted, lunging to his feet, uncertain whether to go after Dover or the 'cat.
Dover tried to take advantage of Zyrr's indecision to bring his blow home. The treecat had clawed his chest, but its prolonged fast and general despondency had so weakened it that what should have been a deadly assault failed to do more than tear the heavy, anti-ballistic weave fabric of his uniform.
Undecided no longer, Zyrr dodged Dover's blow, but his evasion brought him up against the edge of the sofa. He fell backward.
With one hand, Dover grabbed at the treecat, ripping its hold from his tunic front. With his other hand, he fumbled for the pulser at his belt. Shooting Zyrr would be harder to explain, but the apartment was soundproofed and he was certain that he could be convincing, especially with the marks of the treecat's assault on his uniform.
He should not have been able to miss at such close range, but Zyrr kicked the low coffee table out so that it hit Dover in the shins. The shot went wild, plowing a bloody gash across the top of Zyrr's right shoulder.
Stumbling back a few steps, Dover was reaiming when Monroe lunged at him again. The treecat chose to forsake the dramatic leap in favor of sinking his teeth into the soft area behind Dover's left knee.
Dover screamed and kicked, trying to batter the six-legged fiend loose and only seeming to anchor the 'cat more deeply. He felt blood running down his leg into his boot, then a dull pain as Zyrr came to his knees and knocked the pulser from his grasp.
'Surrender, Padraic Dover,' a calm voice demanded.
Still trying to dislodge Monroe, he saw that a skinny old man with drooping mustaches had entered the room, a pulser in one hand. Dover's bowels weakened as he recognized one of the senior members of the PGS, the comic little man that everyone in the Service knew to fear and respect.
In the face of Daniel Chou's unforgiving gaze, the fight went out of him. Dover dropped his hands.
'Padraic Dover,' Chou repeated coldly, 'I place you under arrest for attempted murder of Justin Zyrr, the murder of King Roger III, and the crime of grand treason.'
There was a moment of pure silence and stillness during which even Monroe's muffled growling ceased. Dover felt the fangs and claws leave his leg. Slowly, he raised his hands.
'I . . .' he began.
Then there was a surge of grey and cream and before he could lower his hands, Monroe flung himself from the fallen coffee table into Dover's unprotected face.
Padraic Dover's world became a wreckage of red. Blood washed down his face, blinding him; something was wrong with his throat. He couldn't breathe. Horrified, he recognized the ragged, burbling noise as his own breathing and felt the blood flowing down his windpipe, choking him.
There was shouting around him, words about a med team. Someone was pulling the furious treecat away. It all seemed curiously distant, though. From the one eye that was not washed over with blood, Padraic saw the ceiling light fixture and realized that he was lying on his back. Odd. He hadn't remembered falling.
