Ravnos eyed the folded paper with deep suspicion.
President Kidd pressed it into his hand and smiled. “You will attend tonight’s dinner and musical, won’t you?”
Crap… Ravnos hid his wince with a tight smile and a nod. “Of course, Mr.
President.”
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Morgan Hawke
Chapter Eighteen
After a rather long ascending lift ride and a march through curved windowed hallways, Ravnos and his men arrived in the spacious four-bedroom suite that was their temporary quarters. Less than half an hour later, his four crewmen, led by his lieutenant, had his formal captain’s attire unpacked, pressed, starched, and ready for donning the moment he stepped from the shower. One of his men had even taken the time to polish the two dozen silver buttons on his black velvet armored long coat while yet another had polished his boots to a mirror shine.
Ravnos counted himself lucky that he was allowed to put on his own undergarments, stockings, and trousers.
His senior yeoman tucked his shirtsleeves into the armholes of his black brocade waistcoat and then into the sleeves of his captain’s coat, so as not to crush the starched perfection of his lace cuffs and collar. Ravnos was then allowed to don the shirt, waistcoat, and coat simultaneously, but forced to stand perfectly still while a yeoman buttoned his shirt and attended to his cufflinks. A lace cravat, which was starched within an inch of its life, was set around his collar and tied in a florid bow.
While this was happening, yet another yeoman combed his damp, beyond-shoulder-length hair, and rather firmly tamed it into a tightly braided queue tied with a black silk ribbon in an overlarge bow. A broad silver sash was tied around him, and brushes were brought out to stroke the black velvet of his coat into sleek perfection.
Finally, his ornate, black- and silver-etched captain’s sword bearing Hellsbreath’s crest was belted around him.
The four men stood back to intently peruse their handiwork.
Feeling rather put-upon, Ravnos glared at them. “Am I presentable enough for you?”
The four crewmen looked over at the lieutenant.
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The lieutenant tilted his head to either side and rubbed his jaw, his brows lifting in clear uncertainty. “Eh”—he grinned—“you’ll do.”
Ravnos rolled his eyes while positioning his arm-length parrying dagger at the small of his back. “Remind me again why I let you bully me this way?”
His lieutenant stepped forward and pressed the handwritten invitation into Ravnos’s hand. “Because you have yet to select a first officer to protect you from us.”
Ravnos snorted and tucked the invitation into the wide cuff of his sleeve. “I’ll make that my first priority.”
His lieutenant nodded firmly. “See that you do.” He then practically shoved his captain out of the suite and into the lift. “Have fun and play nice, Captain!” He waved while the lift doors eased closed.
In the solitude of the descending lift, Ravnos stared at the handwritten, wax-sealed, and beribboned command, cleverly disguised as a formal invitation to dinner, and allowed himself the luxury of a deep, rumbling growl. “Play nice, my ass!” This was a disaster in the making; he could feel it. Not only would he have to “play nice”
with the Imperial admiral who would undoubtedly be there, but he’d have to hide his intolerance to certain very common human foods, namely vegetables. An intolerance that would be very recognizable to the entire Skeldhi delegation present.
He activated his communicator. “Imp One, are you in position?”
The earcom crackled. “Aye, aye, Captain, one minute from your signal.”
Ravnos nodded. “Good. Out.” Thank the Fates he’d thought to prepare an escape plan, just in case. He fisted his hands to flex the muscles in his forearms, feeling for the throwing blades sheathed inside both of the sleeves of his captain’s coat. All things considered, it was looking less like “just in case,” and more like “any second now.”
The elevator stilled. Several small and metallic things smacked against the door’s exterior with ringing pops followed by the distinct and familiar scream of metal scoring metal.
Ravnos stiffened. That sounded like…bolt pistols? He whirled to the left and tucked himself against the side. The lift was too small to unsheathe his sword. Piss! His thumb pressed against the scarab on his belt. A slight hum and a barely visible wavering in the air around him marked the activation of the deflection field.
The doors parted. Smoke whirled into the lift, reeking of scorched metal, melting stone, and the copper sweet tang of blood. A cacophony of hoarse shouts, the ring of live-steel against live-steel, and the loud retort of handheld bolt pistols hammered against his ears.
Ravnos freed his parrying dagger from its sheath at his back and peeked past the edge of the open lift doors. The hallway beyond was a merry hell of smoke, fire, and broken bodies wearing blood-spattered Imperial white and shattered, exotic black armor.
What the hell…?
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Morgan Hawke
At the center of the maelstrom whirled the hulking and distorted shape of a blood-drenched, Marauder cyborg. Tusks curled from its screaming mouth. Its hands were fingered with knives as long as Ravnos’s forearm. Irregularly shaped scales coated the beast in bullet-repelling armor, and a long, prehensile, bladed tail swung in a deadly arc. It mowed through both the Imperial delegation and the sword-wielding Skeldhi with complete abandon.
Ravnos noted the tattered remains of the bright blue frockcoat of the president’s chamberlain hanging from the creature’s distorted shoulders and winced. A sleeper assassin, fuck! The Fates only knew when the Marauder nano-virus was implanted in its unwitting and doomed host. The nano-virus was capable of remaining dormant for years, appearing as merely a bit of half-erased data. However, once the second half of the code was delivered, the host’s own nanites transformed them physically, mechanically, and mentally into a monstrous and deadly cyborg that would not cease tearing apart everything and everyone in its path until its target had been
