"Regon's shout brought Sills back 
            MARKETABLE ASSETS               around, the barrel realigning.   
                                            Regon threw himself away, hand   
           by  Vicki L. Martin              clawing for his own holstered    
                                            SW&R. The move was trained,      
           Copyright (c) 1993               instinctive; he'd never draw and 
                                            fire in time."

James Regon pulled his eye away from the retinal scanner and thought, `I hate this. I really, seriously hate this.'

He shot nervous fingers through his short-cropped black hair. The Polliwog behind the flexiscreen web, her red-tipped snout shining, hurried him into the back room with perfunctory politeness.

Midnight blue eyes studied his newest possession. `Gahd, what a head of hair!'

Riotous copper curls lay limp on bony shoulders. The young human sat in an unreliable chair, clad in a beige sweater two sizes too large for his slender body.

His hands were securely tied behind his back.

Regon slit the ropes with a single swipe of his knife, said, "Let's go," and started out the back door.

The man rubbed the ropes off his wrists and studied Regon with renewed wariness. "Where are we going?"

"I'll explain later, after we're clear of the market." When the stranger still refused to come along, Regon hissed, "Look, unless you want to get caught up in some very nasty attempts on my life, I'd suggest you move."

Green eyes blinked twice before the man followed Regon out the back door and along the alley.

The pair slipped out of the alley beside a sweet-scented confectioner's shop and mixed with the crowds. The younger man threw hungry glances toward every food booth they passed.

Though refusing to stop, Regon dug a meat roll from his pouch and passed it across. The man tore into the bread-wrapped sausage.

"What's your name?" Regon asked.

"Erik," he mumbled around an overfull mouth. "Erik Milhollin. You?"

"Regon." He eyed the quickly vanishing meat roll. "You're not half hungry, are you?"

"You'd be hungry, too, if you hadn't eaten in three days."

"I thought the Polliwogs treated their merchandise better than that."

"Most times they do. They only hold off on the food when the 'merchandise' still has a mind of its own."

Regon grinned, pleased that he'd read the signs right. "Bit of trouble, were you?"

"Enough." Erik wiped his hands clean on the seat of his pants, favored Regon with a look of distrustful speculation, and asked, "So when you plan on jumping me?"

"Jumping you?"

"That's what you bought me for, innit? Big he-merc like you doesn't go to the market unless he's buying something for his bed."

Regon laughed. "Not this time, mate. I've got other plans for you."

Cat eyes darkened. "I won't work the streets for you."

Sight of two familiar faces in the crowd to their rear drove the chosen retort from Regon's mind. Instead, he asked, "How good a fighter are you?"

"Why do you think I was tied up?"

"If you get into trouble, put your back into the nearest corner and stay the hell out of my way."

"Promise me another sausage roll and a warm ale, and I'd fight half the Polliwog army with you."

"You're on, friend."

Though expecting an attack, Regon was almost too late turning to meet the first man's rush. Sidestepping a knife aimed at his right kidney, he chopped at the conveniently presented neck and danced away. A backswung leg effectively destroyed the man's balance.

A hard shove sent him flying even further away.

All around them, market shoppers screamed and fled. Voices raised in fear and warning filled the air. Panic reigned.

Two more attackers closed in from behind. Regon wheeled; he might evade one, but he'd never dodge the other. The nearer, larger of the pair, moved in first. A fifteen inch jungle knife filled one hand; a round-tipped stun-rod filled the other.

Same old Neville.

The stun rod swept in low, aimed for Regon's genitals. An electric jangle shot up his trouser leg.

To protect his vulnerable back, Regon turned Neville's attack energy against him, reversing their positions; Neville's body blocked the second man's attack.

Regon spared a quick glance around. Terror had cleared the street, leaving the five humans momentarily alone. His first attacker--a free-lance assassin named Sills--sprawled in a heap, his head bloody where he'd collided with a nearby wall.

Erik danced with the third attacker.

Regon turned back in time to avoid Neville's second strike with the stun rod. He bulled his way inside Neville's reach, too close for the larger man to use the rod effectively. Before Neville could bring either of his weapons to bear, Regon caught the man in his fist and twisted. Hard.

Neville screamed; the fluting screech brought a cold smile to Regon's lips. Regon's other hand snatched away the man's knife, twisted it around, and hissed the razor edge across the man's throat.

Twisting about, Regon stopped, slowed by surprise. Sills had recovered

enough to pull himself off the dirty pavement and draw a short-barreled breastpin gun from a concealed pocket. The barrel lifted, aimed at Milhollin's unsuspecting back.

"Erik! Behind you!"

Regon's shout brought Sills back around, the barrel realigning. Regon threw himself away, hand clawing for his own holstered SW&R. The move was trained, instinctive; he'd never draw and fire in time.

The breastpin spat. Its load--a thin, steel pin no longer than a fingernail--caught Regon in the left arm. Pain made him lose hold of his half-drawn weapon. He sprawled on the pavement, stunned and helpless.

A victorious grin split Sills's face. He steadied the breastpin for a second, fatal, shot.

Regon knew he should react some way, should try to recover his own weapon. He couldn't move.

`Stupid way to die,' Regon thought. `Never should've bid in public thataway.'

The breastpin fired again.

A body hurled between Regon and Sills. A barked cry cut off abruptly as the figure landed on the street. Blood from a tiny hole under one shoulder blade marked the missile's exit point.

Somewhere in the fractured seconds of the attack, Erik saw Regon's danger. He caught his man by the lapel and hurled him into the path of the needle.

Erik's knife sank to the hilt just below Sills' breastbone before the killer could realize his mistake.

Regon's vision wavered, shivering in a gray fog. Sure fingers fiddled with his jacket sleeve, tying off the arm to slow the bleeding.

"Talk to me, Regon. I don't know this city. I don't even know anything about this planet. Tell me where to take you."

Regon harvested the scattered threads of his reason. He accepted Erik's help, leaning heavily on the narrow shoulders, and pointed up the street.

"Two--three--blocks down, turn right. Hover rental shop on the right."

They shuffled along, ignoring frightened and curious looks from the emerging crowd. Regon fished an activation chip from his pouch. He handed it to his companion then let his mind drift.

Regon sank gratefully into the soft cushions of the hovercar and watched buildings and city parks whiz past. He wondered at himself. It wasn't like him to yield to anyone, especially not a complete stranger--a man he'd just bought off a Polgish slave block.

The initial shock of injury wore off even as the pain increased. Warmed by the full-blowing heating unit, he dug his way back to reasoning thought and studied his companion.

`What makes me want to trust him? I've never accepted anyone like this in my entire life. So he saved my life. I work solo. I'm trained. I shouldn't be able to trust anyone until I know a lot more about them than I know about this Erik Milhollin. I don't--I won't--trust anyone. My mission is too important. I don't dare risk it.'

"Are we going to fly around the city in circles," Erik asked, "or are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"Take the Millish Expressway--the northbound just ahead. I'll tell you where to go from there." He studied the curl- crowned profile. "You saved my life-- why? You could've let them kill me. You'd've been free."

"You still owe me a sausage roll and a tankard of warm ale. Can't collect those off a corpse. Besides, the instant the Polliwog law found your body, they'd decide I did it, then where would I be?"

"You've got a point," Regon agreed.

Erik took his eyes off the hover lane long enough to study the wound. "We'll need to stop and take care of that soon. Will we be driving long?"

"Long enough. Stay on the Millish northbound 'til I say otherwise."

"Yes, master."

The dry mockery in the deep voice brought a smile to Regon's lips. Warm and comfortable, he sank into the cushions and closed his eyes.

Regon jerked awake again, aware that he'd lost consciousness. The single-room cabin smelled pleasantly of processed stew.

A steaming mug of coffee bobbed in front of his nose.

"Don't know what your job is, friend," merriment filled Milhollin's voice, "but it must pull a lot of credit. Haven't seen a legitimate Terran brew or a good Malt Scotch in over ten years."

"I have a private supplier." Regon eyed the glass of liquor in his companion's hand; a dark eyebrow rose.

"Sorry, helped myself." Milhollin saluted him with the cup. "Would've got you some, too, but I gave you a hypo of pain cleaner a couple hours ago. Can't mix the two, can we?"

"How did you know how to get here?"

"Found a fiber map in your pocket."

They devoured a full meal as the second of Polgish Three's two suns disappeared over the western horizon. Drowsy, Regon saw no reason to move. Milhollin set the dirty dishes in the portable wash unit, stored away the leftovers, and returned to the bed.

Feeling the need to fill the silence with conversation, Regon asked, "What were you doing on the Polgish slave block?"

"Wrong place at the wrong time. My Mam was a systems merchant. We'd flit about the quadrant, shipping this, hauling that."

"Lemme guess. Someone slipped something into a cargo."

"The honest reputation she'd spent forty years building didn't do her a bit of good. And because we'd been so honest, we didn't have enough money for a good lawyer."

"What happened to her?"

"Last I saw of her, we were in the Sentencing Chamber. When they gave me the block ... she had a seizure. No one ever told me what happened."

"I'm sorry."

Milhollin shrugged off his concern. "I think it's about time you told me what you were doing at the market today. If it wasn't for a tight bottom for your bed, what was it?"

Regon studied the younger, smaller man and gauged his potential-- as partner, co-conspirator, or threat. Regon sat up in bed, and motioned for Milhollin to close the light screens.

"I'm a ... well, my business is my own. It's honest and legal. As you noticed, it pays well, too. I call it 'corrective adjustment'."

Milhollin sat on the foot of the bed, expressionless but alert.

`At least he's not already retreating,' Regon reasoned. "I've been hired to stop a Polgish criminal named Sorin. He has a bodyguard named Keishie, a female Polliwog with rather exotic tastes."

A hard glint marred Milhollin's eyes. "I suit her ... exotic tastes."

"You won't do anything physical. Just draw her away from Sorin long enough to give me a shot at him."

"You're an assassin."

"The man's a sadist, Milhollin. He gets a charge torturing innocent children. He flaunts it, bragging how he's above the law. Someone's got to stop him, and by god, it's going to be me!"

Milhollin leaned away from him, as much to protect his ears as to gain breathing space. Regon sat back against the headboard.

"I intend to get him," Regon said, "one way or another. Will you help me?"

"If I don't?"

"I'll tie you up and leave you here. Kill you if I have to."

"You'd do that after I saved your life?"

"I don't have a choice. I can't afford loose ends."

Milhollin snarled an oath, leaped off the bed and raced out the door.

His arm aching despite the medication, Regon slammed a fist down on a bedside control box. He threw off the covers and ran to the door.

In the light-flooded drive, Erik reached for the hovercar door, only to cry out and fall back, unprepared for the security system Regon had activated. Spying Regon on the covered porch, Erik sprinted towards the trees, ignoring the agent's shouted warning.

Erik fetched up against the static fence running full speed. He grunted, every bit of wind knock from his chest, and fell to the ground, nerves twitching from the shock. Though stunned, the space nav scrambled onto his hands and knees.

"If you're thinking to get away in some other direction," Regon warned, "don't."

Erik tottered to his feet, determined to face his killer with his head high. "Get it over with, then. Go on. Shoot! Just don't expect me to beg you off."

Regon cocked an eyebrow at the gun in his hand; he didn't even remember picking it up. A smile, half mocking, half ironic, raised one corner of his mouth. He motioned toward the building.

"Inside, friend. We'll talk about this some more."

"No."

"Get in the cabin, Erik. Now."

"Go to hell!"

"Stubborn--."

Regon slammed the brakes on his anger. Trading temper for temper was not the best way to deal with Erik Milhollin.

"Look, I won't hurt you unless you give me a reason to. Will you please go into the house? It's cold out here."

Erik hesitated a moment more, then stumbled toward the porch, wobbly on unsteady legs.

Regon moved with only slightly more grace. Closing and sealing the door behind him, he tumbled onto the mattress and deactivated the exterior security lights but left the screens activated.

Erik draped the other side of the bed, gasping and shuddering.

"That was dumb," Regon said. "You were lucky I preset the fence to stun."

A plump pillow under his face muffled Erik's response. "Hoo-bloody-ray."

"Look, Erik, I'm not asking you to do anything illegal or even immoral. All I need is Keishie away from the door for two minutes. After that, you're free to go anywhere you like. I'll give you your papers, sign you a free man."

"I don't really give a damn."

"I'll help you find your Mam."

Erik's body tensed. The curls lifted.

Sensing possible victory, Regon pressed, "I have contacts. Help me get at Sorin. You'll earn your freedom and find your mother."

Erik's lips pressed into a mirthless grin. "Mum's freedom."

"I can't promise to swing that."

"I'll help you. I'll give up my own freedom, stay to do whatever dirty work you want, if you'll get Mam back on her ship."

Regon sucked on the inside of his cheek, thinking the option through, though the simple act of future estimation was more difficult than it should have been. He forced his stiff, aching body off the bed and plopped himself down before the small communit set into the wall.

When Erik sought to watch, he sternly commanded him back to the bed.

Regon played with the keys for ten minutes then sighed and sat back, rubbing his aching temples. Erik sat rigid on the edge of the bed, wringing his hands in unconscious distress.

"It's a deal."

Erik's face brightened.

"You know where she is?"

Regon motioned him over. Erik bounded across the room and examined the screen.

"The seizure wasn't severe," Regon reported. "She was released from hospital two days after the sentencing. Transported to Labor Camp Ten-A-Nine. That's the most minimum security facility on Krinosh. She'll be safe there until we do what needs doing."

"Get her out now."

"Oh, no. I don't know you, Erik Milhollin. I don't know if I trust you to go through with it if you think you've already had your way. She's free when the job is done, not before."

"And if you botch the job? What then?"

"I've left a written statement with my employer. If it goes sour because of something I did or some hazard I didn't foresee, she'll be given her pardon."

Regon deactivated the communit and stood up. He wanted that bed even more than he wanted revenge against Sorin. "Since that's settled, I think I'll--." A wave of cold-heat swept over his face; his eyes blurred. "Wha--?"

Erik caught him as he started a slow slide toward the floor. Regon's vision tunneled down.

"Sh'd've known ... Sills ... always liked to f-f-fiddle his needles."

Erik swallowed. "Poison?"

"Naw ... just ... be sick awhile." Vicious chills rattled his teeth. "S-s-s--oh damn. 'm sorry."

Erik said something more, but Regon was too far lost in sickness to hear, or care.

`I can't believe I'm doing this. I've fixed the security codes on the hovercar. With the credsticks I found hidden around the cabin, I can get off this miserable rock. If it weren't for the chance of getting Mam out, I'd've left days ago.'

Erik sobered, honest with himself. `No, I wouldn't have. I wouldn't leave a mudworm in this sorry state. Even a paid assassin deserves help when he's sick.'

The smaller man replaced the moist cloth across Regon's forehead and struggled to make sense of the sick man's disjointed mumbling. He spoke mainly of people and places Erik had never heard

of. Something occasionally slipped through, an emotion or action, that he found recognizable.

`I wonder who 'Eliza' is. Regon's certainly heaped some colorful abuse on that one's head, but I don't feel there's anything malicious behind it--more fondness than resentment.

Sorin, though, is different. There's real hate there. It's not abstract, either--no hatred for collective sins. There's something personal here. Regon's come up against this particular Polliwog before, and it's left him scarred.

What sort of nightmare am I mixed up in?'

Regon's mumbles spiraled down into another deep sleep. Erik pulled the coverlet further up over the shivering shoulders and let the man sleep.

For three days he cared for the delirious man. If he didn't have his hands full with Regon, he was bored half out of his mind for lack of anything to do. Whatever else Regon might be, he was neither reader nor gamester; there wasn't a single book or computer game anywhere in the cabin, nothing to wile away the hours except a tatty deck of cards.

Left with hours of loose ends, Erik had bent his curiosity and skill to the communit. `This is pretty impressive, and I haven't even touched the restricted files yet. This Regon ... he isn't the assassin I thought he was. He's somehow connected to GIP. Haven't figured out how yet, but I will before I'm finished.'

"How ... how did you ... get on that?"

Erik looked up. Though weak as a newborn babe, Regon stared back with delirium-clear eyes. Erik shifted his own gaze to the chrono on the wall.

`No wonder my spine's talking to me. I've been sitting at this thing for hours!'

Erik closed the unit and came to the bed. Regon's skin, though pinched and pale, no longer burned his fingers.

"Good, your fever's broken. About time."

"Where did you ... get the axe code ... my communit?"

"You gave it to me. Saw you use it that first day." Erik pointed to the polished chrome side of the kitchen storage unit. "Saw your reflection in that. Handy trick every space nav and pilot picks up, learning to read mirror images."

"What did you ... find out?"

"Nothing you'd mind me knowing. I was careful to stay out of the restricts. I know you're latched to GIP some way; haven't quite figured out how yet. I mean, Galactic Intelligence Prime are more famous for arresting assassins than for hiring them."

"I'm not an assassin. At least ... not the kind you're thinking of."

"The thought has crossed my mind a couple of times over the last three days, yeah."

"Three ... three days?"

Erik controlled a budding smile. "Closer to four. Whatever was on the needle, it certainly did its job on you."

"Three days wasted ..."

"Nearer four. Hungry?"

Diverted, Regon pulled a tired face. "Not really ... but I need something anyway."

Erik returned within minutes with a meal for the invalid. He spoon-fed Regon a light portion of the broth and bread. A quite comfortable air hung between them, enough so that Erik risked trying to satisfy his curiosity.

"You talked a bit ... delirious with fever."

"Nothing offensive, I hope."

"Just names and places, and a few snatches of conversation. You mentioned Sorin several times, and never in a very commendable light."

"He is not a very commendable being."

"I'm beginning to see that." Since Regon hadn't objected to his references to Sorin, he felt it safe to ask, "Who is Eliza?"

Regon stiffened. Dark blue eyes hardened to mica flints. Erik retreated before the powerful glare.

"Eliza is none of your business."

Erik left the bed, taking the meal tray with him; he tried but failed to match Regon's gaze. "Sorry."

Regon studied the stiff set to the slender shoulders and regretted his fury. Exhausted physically and emotionally, he relaxed on the bed. He drifted in mental limbo, too weak to rise but too wound up to sleep. He was only vaguely aware when Erik, having put away the food and set the dishes to clean, moved to the bedside and stripped off his clothes.

Erik extinguished the light. Exterior darkness flooded through the heavily curtained windows, throwing the room into utter darkness.

The bed rocked, a sudden quaking of the air mattress. The cover raised; cool air brushed him from shoulder to hip. A warm body stretched out at his side, replacing the cover and displaced heat.

Unease thickened the air around them. Regon didn't like it in the least.

"Sorry. It's just ... a private subject."

"I understand. My fault for pressing. Go to sleep, Regon."

"Erik?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

The phenomenally wealthy citizens of Yulith Cote resided on The Hill, a single rise located almost dead center of the metropolis. Seated in the hopper, the two men studied the well-fortified ten-story steel and weather-glass structure behind the thirty foot static wall.

"That Sorin's place?"

"Yeah."

A reddish eyebrow vanished beneath copper ringlets. "Ever think of breaking into the planetary treasury? You'd have better luck."

"I don't plan on taking him here," Regon said; he activated the hover's air pumps and set the vehicle moving again. "There's a dive in the Lower City he frequents, sometimes only every two or three seasons, but it's the one haunt where I know I'll eventually see him."

"What sort of place is it?"

"Procuring house."

"Girls?"

"On the surface. It's secret trade is children, all sexes, all species. I'll wager the oldest Human child in the place is probably around ten."

Erik paled. "You can't be serious. Ten years ... they're bloody babies!"

"My employer's kept watch on the place for years but could never find a loophole in the system that would shut them down. We intercept their transports as often as we can but a few ships always get through. We've even outbid them at the block, just to keep the babes out of their hands."

"'We' being GIP?"

Regon shook his head. "I didn't say that."

Erik smiled. "I know."

Regon tooled the hovercar down the

tubes with near-reckless speed. Erik had to admire his competence at the controls--it wasn't too many who could so casually control a careening hunk of metal skimming on a bed of air.

The hover moved constantly downhill. The buildings beyond the weather-glass domes of the tubes grew increasingly dense. Prosperity and glit decreased in direct proportion to age and decay. By the time Regon shifted them onto one of the uncovered open-ground paths that led into the lowermost sections of Yulith Cote, they were surrounded by nothing but trash, destruction, and filth.

"There's been a surveilling team on the place the last two seasons. Sorin's sure to visit, probably tonight or tomorrow, within the next sevenday at the outside."

"How can you be sure?"

Regon pointed to a message flashing across the hovercar's portable communit. "A new shipment arrived at the spaceport just this morning. Sorin's bound to want first choice."

"Who's sending that?"

"The surveilling team. Even I don't know where they're watching from, and it's not good policy to try and spot them. They're a strange lot. Most of them aren't even human, and they don't like having all their hard work blown by a couple of nosy agents."

"I'm not an agent. I'm a distraction."

Regon resisted smiling only by a supreme effort of will. He couldn't, however, control the merry dance of his eyes.

"It won't matter to the surveilling teams. Anyone who spots their watchposts soon wishes he hadn't."

Regon parked the hover in a Pay N' Protect sealed lot and led his companion into a gray tenement three longish blocks from the procuring house. Staring through the glassless window frame, he pointed to the squat building down the way.

"That's the Blue Cushion. Don't let the face fool you. Inside, it's a palace. Supposedly a bawdy house for free-trade prostitutes, it's owned and run by a half- Human named Brand."

"What's his other half?"

"Hell devil. He's the one who hooked Sorin on Human children. He caters to Sorin's vices and provides him with a private 'sampling room'. There's talk he even joins the Polliwog in his 'games'."

"Why hasn't the law closed him down? Raping underagers is illegal in every known species."

"It's simple, really. On Polgish, the Final Judiciary for Sex- Related Crimes is a slimy worm named Kemmosh. A true politician, smooth as silk, with a taste for young flesh. All Brand's lawyer has to do is put the case before Kemmosh, and it'll get flushed out the nearest disposal tube."

"How can space sludge like that exist?"

"After tonight, it won't. At least not in Sorin's case."

"So what happens?"

"When Sorin comes, he'll do it openly. He's so sure of himself he doesn't even try to hide his tastes. Keishie will stand outside the main door, knocking away any other customers. That door is, by the way, the only known way into the building. There is another, the one the shipments are brought through, but it's so well hidden, not even the surveilling team's been able to find it."

"Where do I fit in?"

"Your job is to lure Keishie away from the door for the two minutes I'll need to deactivate the warning alarms and get inside the building. How you do is up to you."

"This Keishie--she the kind that likes the big-eyed, frail, helpless types?"

"From what I could tell, yeah. Though she usually goes for sun-gold blonds."

"Once you're inside, then what?"

"Then you're free to go."

"But what about my Mam?"

Regon offered his first truly honest smile. "She's already pardoned. I imagine she's already back on her ship, on her way to pick you up."

"What are you talking about?"

Regon drew meaningless figures in the blown dust covering the window sill. "You didn't have to tend me when I was sick. I owe you for that. Before we left the cabin, I arranged full pardons for both you and your Mam. She has her ship back, and both pardons in her pocket. If she goes at top transport speed, she'll be at the spaceport by noon day after tomorrow."

Regon dug a small pouch from a pocket and handed it over.

"There's a temporary freedom receipt in there, and enough credsticks to tide you until your Mam gets here."

Erik stared from the wallet to Regon and back; he didn't immediately accept the offering. "Why are you doing this? It wasn't part of our deal."

"I want Sorin. You've agreed to help me, that's reason enough. The fact that you saved my life--twice--might have something to do with it."

"I didn't do it for a reward, not even this one." Erik slapped the pouch away, his temper simmering. "I'll do whatever I have to do to save my Mam, but I won't be bribed into helping you. If what you've said about this Sorin is true, I want to stop him for that reason alone."

"It's what you first asked for, and I never denied it, did I? You added the condition of your Mother's safety later. I want Sorin, Erik. Help me get him."

Erik hesitated a final moment before accepting the pouch.

"Thank you. Without you ..." Regon shook like a dog ridding itself of an unwelcome bath and pasted a cheery smile onto his face. "You'd better snatch what rest you can. Oh, and one of the surveilling team will be by later on tonight with some clothes for you."

"Clothes?" Erik studied the sweater and trousers he wore. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Not exactly provocative. Won't make Keishie's eyes pop."

"No, guess not."

Expecting Regon to do likewise, Erik made himself as comfortable as possible on the bare floor. He watched as the larger man instead took up a post beside the window, eyes still on the Blue Cushion.

"You should rest, too," Erik said. "You're still not over that tainted dart. It doesn't make sense to go up against the Sorin without a proper sleep under your ear."

"I'm fine. I've spent so much of the last few days sleeping, I don't think I ever want to close my eyes--or see another bed--for at least a full cycle."

Erik laughed. Reassured, he settled down to get what rest he could in the unsavory surroundings.

"It'll be tonight. I can feel it, 'Liza. It'll all be over tonight. I'll finally settle with that sadistic beast."

The soft-spoken words roused Erik

from a light sleep. Camped in the darkest corner of the bare room, he watched the man seated beside the window, his indistinct figure lit by a ghostly glow from the dimmed communit screen.

Regon, unaware of his audience, stared at the points of light that marked the Blue Cushion's entryway. His voice fell to its lowest register, ripe with silky promise.

"I'll see you tonight, Sorin. I'll finally meet you face to face."

Erik's skin wiggled under the undisguised enmity in the throaty purr.

`Finally meet Sorin, he said. That means they've never met before. How could he hate Sorin so much? Maybe it has something to do with this Eliza.'

Ray shifted to relieve a sore spot on one bum cheek. Regon reacted to the slight sound, his weapon out and ready before he consciously thought to draw it.

Erik glanced at the gun and cooed, "Twitchy."

"Could get your head shot off making sudden sounds like that." Regon shoved the gun back into its holster.

"Sorry, didn't know there was another way to move." He joined Regon at the window but could see nothing but pins of light all across the city. "You want to catch a little sleep? I'll watch for awhile."

"No."

There wasn't really room at the one window for both men to watch in comfort, but Erik had no interest in going back to sleep. He leaned his back against the wall and stared at the room's door, his thoughts on a speeding cargo transport and an upcoming reunion.

"Gerrom came by while you were asleep," Regon said. He jerked a thumb at a crate set against the far wall in a patch of bright moonlight. "Your wardrobe. Let's have a look."

Regon examined the contents under the pin-point glow of a wrist-light. Milhollin didn't like the larger man's nasty chuckle.

"You'll look smashing in this little bit."

"Little?"

"Very little."

Milhollin activated his own wrist-band torch and nudged Regon aside. "Lemme at that. If I'm going through with this, I get to pick what I wear."

"You're no fun," Regon sighed, but moved back to the window, leaving Milhollin to sort through the trunk at his leisure.

Down on the street, Erik followed the more experienced man around the darkened turns. They seemed to walk forever. Within five minutes, Erik was totally and in all ways, lost; Regon was obviously coming at the place from a totally different direction. Within five more minutes, he heartily wished Regon would slow down.

Five more after that, legs aching and lungs burning, he seriously considered canceling his agreement. He wondered if the Blue Cushion was their destination at all.

Regon stopped so suddenly Erik ran into him from behind. Sight of the Blue Cushion two doors ahead of them prevented any dangerous outburst.

A single figure stood before the entrance, a round, piggish Polgishin, highly visible in a heavy black jacket with enough metal decoration to outfit a small hover.

"Is that Keishie?" he whispered.

Regon nodded.

"Well," Erik sighed, "let's get this over with, shall we?"

"Erik ..."

Erik turned at the soft, almost humble lilt in Regon's voice. Regon stood with weapon drawn. For an insane second, he thought Regon intended to shoot him. He relaxed when the Terra SW&R shifted towards the procuring house.

Regon was too busy studying his shoe tops to notice Erik's momentary start of fright.

"I'll cover you long as I can," he promised, "but once I'm at the door, you're on your own. Are you sure--?"

"Yes. One question, though. Why don't you just shoot Keishie and save all this bother?"

"Because GIP has a charter with the Polgish government that protects guarders like Keishie. Unless she takes an active part in her employer's perverted games, her only crime is doing the job she was hired to do. It I take Sorin down while he's busy playing, it'll be a justifiable case."

Erik nodded, understanding. "But if you ambush his guarder without good cause, you're flushed out the dispose-all, right?"

"Right." Regon shifted his weapon to his left hand and held his right out to Erik. "Thank you again. I hope everything works out for you and your Mam."

"One favor before I go off." Erik's grimace was visible even in the faint light. "Hit me."

Regon's left eyebrow shot up. "Whazzat?"

"You heard me. Hit me. Someplace it'll show."

"You said ... hit you?"

Erik's green eyes snapped. "Yes, hit me! It's part of my cover."

Even though Erik demanded the move, Regon's hand came up so quickly, the smaller man had no chance to flinch away. Regon's knuckles left a readily visible swelling on Erik's left cheek. A trickle of blood from his nose completed the desired effect.

Erik moaned and cradled his cheek. "I said 'it me, no' knock m' 'ead off!"

"Sorry, didn't know there was any other way to hit."

Erik started to move off, only to have Regon call him back.

"Erik." Seeing he had the younger man's attention, Regon said, "Eliza was ... she was one of the first Humans Sorin took ... she was just seven years old. ... They never ... they never found ... She was my daughter."

Regon disappeared before Erik could do more than lose hold of his jaw.

From his new vantage point, Regon could see the entire street. Less than two minutes after he settled in, Erik appeared around the far corner in a stumbling, twisting run. Regon rose halfway to his feet before he realized it was all part of Erik's "lure".

`He is good,' Regon's mind-voice rang with admiration. `If I didn't know I blacked him up, I'd swear he was the defenseless, cuddly little gamin he's pretending to be.'

Erik stumbled up the road, the perfect picture of a lost, shocky babe, eyes wide, full lips opened enough to tempt but not tease.

He moved with a carnal glide that was more instinctive than deliberate, with just enough "woe-is-me" to cast away any suspicions Keishie might have.

Turning, Regon found the Polliwog's

eyes sealed on the approaching figure. The twitching around her bulbous nose, the batting of her heavy eyelashes and the jerking of one knee all proved her interest.

Erik slumped against the wall directly across the street from Keishie, the image of helplessness. He tipped his head just enough so the guarder could see his damaged face.

"Looks like you were done bad by someone," Keishie called across the way. "Need help?"

"Please, they ... I didn't want ... four of them wanted me to ... not all of them at once, I couldn't--!" He turned wide, pleading eyes toward the guarder, cat green turned almost liquid silver in the vague glow from a nearby streetlight.

Regon wanted to laugh at the effeminate quiver in Erik's voice.

Keishie gave the door behind her a measured glance then crossed the street to stand beside Erik.

"Don't worry, little one." Keishie rubbed Erik's back in a calming caress. "I'll take care of you."

`I just bet you will,' Regon thought.

Keishie and Erik moved down the street, the larger Polliwog guiding the "stumbling" Human. Regon watched them go, a curiously reluctant flutter in his chest; if Keishie decided to play rough, Erik wouldn't be able to fight her off.

He should never have coerced the pilot into helping him. It made Regon no better than Sorin, taking what he wanted without permission.

The instant the two figures disappeared from sight, Regon raced through the blackest shadows. He squatted in the lit entry, his nose less than three inches from the entrance lock.

It took him longer to get inside than he'd expected. Brand had installed a new locking system since last Regon had surveyed the place. Still, he was somewhat familiar with the design, and skillfully bypassed Brand's few custom touches.

Small plug glows down by the baseboards offered dim light. Cushioned chairs and settees of various blue shades touched with silver sat scattered around the room. Wall sconces burned at their lowest setting.

He spent a solid ten minutes searching for the basement entrance, and another five figuring out how to open the portal without triggering any alarms. By the time he shifted the settee to the side, taking a bit of floor with it, Regon's nerves were drawn uncomfortably tight.

He descended the narrow stairs. The settee slid back into place above him, tossing the descent into pitch blackness.

Regon lit the way with his wrist-light. Ahead stretched a long, unbroken corridor with a single door faintly visible on the far end.

Every instinct Regon possessed warned him not to go on. Brand must have one or two nasty surprises waiting for anyone who penetrated his security.

Regon studied the way ahead, sweeping the ceiling, floors, and walls with the wrist-light. Nothing aroused his suspicions, yet his subconscious still screamed danger.

Regon hugged the wall, mindful of traps and triggers. He moved an inch at a time, pausing every few breaths to study his next move.

Less than five feet from the door, a faint snapping noise brought Regon around. A hidden plate plunged from the ceiling to block his retreat. A second identical plate slammed down directly in front of the door, effectively sealing him in.

The hiss of displaced air was loud in the confined space, as was the purr of machinery somewhere beyond the walls. Regon gagged and collapsed, hands clawing alternately for his throat and a small explosive charge in his utility pouch. Black flashes behind his eyes led him to the floor, and unconsciousness.

The pain of lost circulation in his hands roused Regon from the comfortable warmth of his own dimmed mind. A chill wind against his bare skin roused him still more.

Opening bleary eyes, he surveyed his surroundings, slowly remembering the cause of his condition.

`Amateurish,' he railed at himself. `Oldest trap in the books and I walked straight into it! The boss'll dance on my blushing hide when he finds out.'

Blinking against the bright light of the large chamber, Regon turned at the sound of soft whimpering toward his back. His heart seized.

Two small cages stood against the far wall. A dozen children of five different races huddled behind the bars, terrified and helpless. One, a small Human male with bright red curls and pale green eyes, studied him back, fire and fear melding in his open gaze.

`Oh gawd, they're just babies! The oldest can't be more than eight!'

A lock disengaged. The children scampered to the farthest reaches of their prison, huddling in terror. Regon, bound hand and foot, naked as the day he popped out, rolled over onto his back.

Sorin and Brand entered the pleasure chamber, matching expressions of triumph on their faces.

Brand stopped beside Regon, a towering mountain.

"Who are you?"

Regon sealed his lips, letting his cold, hard eyes speak for him.

"I said who are you?"

Regon stared and said nothing.

"It doesn't matter, I suppose," Brand said. "It's just as well you're here, though. Saves me the loss."

Confusion colored Regon's thoughts, though no flicker of an eyelash betrayed it to his captors.

"You'll do nicely as an example to my new toys, and it'll save me the financial loss of using one of them." Brand turned to Sorin and indicated the children. "Like what you see? They arrived less than an hour ago. Each one's as virgin as the snows on Mount Taowl."

Sorin studied the cages and drooled, his left knee jerking out of control; Regon wanted to throw up.

Brand lashed a filament cable through Regon's wrist restraints. Regon wiggled and squirmed, doing his best to punch Brand's face. For lack of any other defense, he even tried to bite the man. It did no good.

A small winch took up the slack in the line until Regon hung several inches above the floor, his ankles still bound to a ring mortared into the foundation. Stretched between the two, his shoulders and hips felt torn from their sockets.

Brand moved over to the children, smiling at their terrified hiccups and whimpers.

"This is a lesson you'd all better learn. You do what I say, when I say, to whoever I tell you to do it to. If you don't, you'll get just what I'm about to give

him." Brand pointed to Regon, then repeated his speech in four different languages.

Regon clamped his teeth down on an oath. Brand moved to one of the supply cabinets set against the left wall and withdrew a small injector tube. The procurer moved to stand before Regon, but his words were for the children.

"This is a drug--Jupiin--that makes the body feel more than usual. It will make whatever we do to him seem even worse than it is."

Regon twisted, trying to avoid the small cluster of needles aimed at his left shoulder. The cold sting of injection faded before his rage.

A weak tingling spread from the injection site to every nerve in his body. It wasn't precisely unpleasant, more like the euphoria just after a hard battle, an awareness of every nerve ending and skin cell.

Sorin brushed cold fingertips down Regon's ribs. Acid fire burned his mind. He bit off an instinctive scream but could not hold down a moan.

When Sorin's hands closed on other portions of his body, Regon thrashed about, half-mad with agony. The need to scream overcame every physical and mental effort to control it, and carried on forever.

Between his helpless act and playing hard-to-get, Erik Milhollin kept Keishie occupied for a solid half-hour before figuring he'd given Regon enough time.

Finding a way to slip away from the interested Polgishin hadn't been easy. Erik managed it with the help of a conveniently placed street walker who attracted the Polliwog's eye. Tall, blond, young and slender, with big, sad blue eyes, he was much more Keishie's type, and more willing to entertain than Erik.

Erik slipped away while Keishie and the teenage whore made their acquaintance. In search of a hire-hover, he'd moved only two blocks before he realized he'd headed in the direction of the Blue Cushion.

`Why did I come this way? I've paid my debt. My face hurts and I'm tired down to the bone. I have my freedom chit, enough credsticks to live on, and the spaceport's in the opposite direction. Mam's coming and I want to get off this rock.'

He stopped on the street, undecided. Concealed in shadows, he saw three figures emerge from a building directly ahead.

"That oughta do 'em 'til the next load," one of the men said.

"Don't count on it. Neither of them're ever satisfied," the second, largest man said.

"Just be glad they goes for the small ones, Loor, and not big hulkin' types like you."

Laughing, the three men vanished into the night.

Erik stared after them, gaping. It seemed incredible--a wild leap in logic. Could he have stumbled on the secret entrance to the Blue Cushion?

He was already inside before consciously deciding to move.

Sweaty, tired, and filthy, Erik Milhollin emerged from the tunnel in an underground bathing room. A communal shower area formed one side; the floors and walls still glistened with moisture. Discarded clothing for small bodies littered the tiles.

He heard the screaming from several deserted corridors away. A deep keening noise, accompanied by the fluting cries of terrified children. It took several moments to attach a name to the masculine shrieks.

`God help him, they caught Regon.'

Erik approached the area with caution. He would do no one, least of all Regon, any good if he got himself caught as well.

Erik crouched near the door beyond which the sounds came. Regon broke his cries of pain with curses aimed at his tormenters. Erik smiled at the man's spirit; even nearly insane from the abuse, Regon's metaphors were colorful and extremely descriptive.

Children's weeping and two men's laughter occasionally drowned out Regon's weakening cries.

`I can't just go barging in unarmed,' he reasoned. `They'd cut me to pieces. So what can I do? I'm a space nav. I know electronics and computers. I know guidance and propulsion systems... That's it. Yes, it just might work!

Hang on, Regon, just a few minutes more.'

Erik moved down the hall, searching.

Suspended between heaven and hell, Regon listened while his torturers laughed at his feeble yips. Hatred burned hot in his soul but had no outlet. Impotent with fury, blinded by unending agony, he yearned for five seconds' freedom--five seconds to break that fat Polliwog's neck.

His entire body throbbed, one mass knot of suffering. They hadn't done anything serious to him, yet already he ached for it to end. Brand's drug pumped through his system, magnifying the least little hurt until he thought he would die of it.

"What the--?"

Regon pried open pain-swollen eyes and forced his vision to steady.

A curly-haired apparition stood in the doorway. `Erik?'

"Am I interrupting something?"

The familiar voice, lilting with hard irony, echoed in Regon's ears. The pain, though no less, became more bearable.

"Who are you?" Brand demanded. "How did you get in here?"

"It was quite simple, really. Y'see, dear Keishie gave me up in favor of a slinky little blond lump, so I thought I'd see what fun I could find someplace else."

"How did you got past all my security?"

"I just walked right through the wall."

"Well, you'll never walk out through it."

Regon want to call a warning, tried with all his waning strength. Brand would be dangerous to Erik all by himself. With Sorin's help, he would be unbeatable. What madness had prompted Erik to walk in here unarmed?

Regon's first thought was that his complete loss of vision was due to impending unconsciousness. Brand's gutter oath and Sorin's shout indicated otherwise.

Children howled into the blackness. Brand and Sorin yelled. Erik Milhollin said nothing, and Regon waited.

His first sight of Regon suspended in the air, body covered in a shiny sheen of sweat, red welts and thin cuts marring him from cheek to ankle, drove Erik Milhollin very near the edge of reason. Sight of the children inside the cages did noth

ing to stabilize his composure.

Though the majority of his attention stayed with Brand and Sorin, a small part was on Regon. Comprehension dawned on the pinched face, a quick flash of relief, quickly followed by anxiety.

A light touch to the control in the palm of his hand plunged the room into utter, complete blackness. He'd already placed every item of furniture and flesh in his mind, and had no trouble finding Sorin in the vital first seconds.

The Polgishin croaked when Erik's hard fist slammed into his rolling midsection. Erik followed up with a left hook that sent the blind Polliwog flying.

Erik placed Brand by the rustle of the man's heavy clothing. He was careful to remember the table that held them apart. Skirting the obstacle, he met Brand as the larger man did likewise.

Erik moved with a spaceman's grace in the utter absence of light. The loud swish of cloth gave ample warning. He ducked under the blow and landed a kick square on Brand's most tender portion.

Brand stumbled back into the table, groaning his agony.

Erik kicked out again, catching Brand alongside the head. The larger man lashed out with his arm. Caught above the left ear, he staggered back, seeing bright lights where he knew there should be utter blackness.

Erik ignored the peculiar ringing in his ears and halted his uncontrolled retreat when his back collided with something soft and yielding.

Regon's shudder and deep groan explained the contact, and set his place in the mental room map. Erik met Brand as the larger man stumbled around in search of him.

The sound of Regon's agony, the sensed pain ringing along Erik's nerves, angered Erik beyond reason. He lashed out with a dirty kick, aimed shoulder high. Calculated and deliberate, it landed precisely where he wanted it to land.

He barely heard the wet crunch over the noises of the children. Brand made funny little choking sounds before he fell to the floor. The rustles, the soft gagging noises, quickly ceased.

Erik's every sense strained to find Sorin, but he could feel no sign of the other man. A moment's search found the control where he'd dropped it beside the door.

"I'm about to turn the lights back on. Close your eyes," he said, first in Terran Standard then in Krinoshin, for the benefit of the children, and switched on the lights.

After the terrible gagging noises and the eternal silence that followed, Erik's voice made Regon go weak with relief. So relieved was he, he didn't obey Erik's command in time to keep from being dazzled by the sudden flood of bright illumination.

His first clear sight was of Brand stretched out on the floor a few feet away, throat crushed, face covered in blood. His second was of Erik beside the door, looking both ways along the outer corridor.

"He got away," Erik groused even as he came back and activated the winch that lowered Regon to the floor.

Regon tried hard not to flinch at his friend's considerate touch, but even the brush of air along the fine hairs of his arms and chest was an individual agony. He could not help but quiver when Erik tried to comfort him with an arm across his back.

"No, don't touch ... drug ... sensitized skin ... hurts to touch."

Erik yanked his arm back. "What can I do?"

"Nothing ... has to wear off. I'm cold but I think I'd die if I tried to cover up. The children. Do what you can."

"Where's your communit?"

"Dunno. They skinned me while I was unconscious." Regon was too busy trying to lessen the painful contact with the floor to give much thought to his missing clothing.

Erik hunted the chamber until he found Regon's things piled on top the table. Digging through the pouch, he found Regon's communit and moved back to the traumatized man. Gaining instruction on how to contact the surveilling team, he quickly placed the call and gave directions on how to find the secret entrance. Assured that help was forthcoming, Erik rooted through Brand's pockets until he found the activation chip for the children's cells. Freeing them was the work of a moment. Calming them down was another matter entirely.

He finally enlisted aid of the three oldest, calmest children and put them in charge of soothing the others. One Human child, a boy with red curls and green eyes, even managed a pale grin before turning to coo comfort to a tiny Jumoospin cubling.

As it happened, a Jumoospin female was first through the door. The cubling took one look at her, yipped in hysterical delight, and ran to bury her tiny muzzle in the fur of the adult's chest.

Two of the other children showed signs of renewed terror, but the rest were curiously drawn toward the gigantic Jumoospin female.

Leaving her to calm the distressed younglings, Erik turned back in time to prevent two strangers from touching Regon's oversensitive flesh.

One of the men, a grey-skinned Krinoshin with a medical tattoo on his forehead, looked to Regon and asked, "Do you know what they gave you?"

"Jupiin. Dunno the dose."

"Doesn't matter. It's one of the more harmless sensitizers. Nothing to it, really."

Regon favored the medical man with an irony-tinged eyebrow; blue eyes danced with pained mischief.

"If you say so. Allsi, you can be a right pain in the butt sometimes, you know that?"

"If you thud and blunder boys will shoot across the galaxy in search of new and interesting ways to cause yourselves pain then look to me to set you right again, can I help it if I take refuge in wit?"

"Taking refuge is one thing," Regon gritted his teeth and endured the physician's examination, "murdering the poor thing is ... something else ... dammit, Allsi, that hurts!"

"Regon ..."

Erik's soft, submissive voice distracted Regon from his discomforts. Green eyes glittered in the light.

"Erik? You alright?"

"Sorin got away. I'm sorry. I wanted to get him for you, but ..."

Though the chance to achieve a longed-for revenge was gone, Regon could not hold down a grin.

"There'll be other times."

"Least we got this lot free in time," Erik sighed, smiling at the drape of youn

glings draping to the ursinoid from shoulder to ankle.

"There's that," Regon agreed. "I just wiiiiiIII--Shiii--!"

Regon yelped as Allsi pressed an injector tube against his right hip. Milhollin's warm laughter followed him into healing sleep.

Vicki L. Martin is Technical Secretary in the Agricultural Economics Department of the Texas Agricultural Extension Service at Texas A&M University. She has been writing as a hobby for 20 years, but seriously for nearly seven. Her writing credits include charter membership in Brazos Writers, where she held the position of Newsletter Editor for three years and Vice-President for one year. She reached the semi-finals in the L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future Contest and won first place at the Virgule '92 Convention Writing Contest. In addition, she had edited and authored numerous fanzine publications, dealing with novellas, short stories, and anthologies of multimedia television series. In this category, on work, a Quantum Leap novella, was nominated for Best Fan-Q Award at the 1992 Media West Convention. She is currently in the process of polishing three separate trilogy sets in the hopes that at least one will find a home in print.

vlm@ag-eco.tamu.edu