Molehunt (18 page)

M
AXIMUS was a marked man. He knew he was. If he'd appraised Lotang correctly, then as he sat in this out-of-the-way bar, his life was in jeopardy. He had no doubt that assassins were now targeting him, but not for immediate kill. Oh, no. Lotang would be more discreet than that. He assumed Maximus had ‘insurance', which could embarrass Lotang if anything untoward happened to him. No. Right now, Lotang's hired attack dogs were taking measurements of Maximus's body heat, brain wave signature, physical dimensions, and other subtle parameters from which lethal precision weapons could be designed. They would already have his DNA from his visit to their headquarters.

Ah, what an age we live in
, thought Maximus. The age of weapons designed to kill one specific human being.

What the attack dogs did not realise was that Maximus was sitting there solely for their benefit. The dermal reconstruction had caused his physical statistics to be altered significantly and had activated an array of expensive devices to alter his brain wave signature, body temperature and internal bioscans. He had also shed false DNA traces in Lotang's presence.

Maximus smiled as he sipped his spiced kaf. His fine-tuned nose detected a range of Arachnorian esthers. He filed away this piece of information. He imagined Quag chortling to himself and crowing to his master about how that dumb bastard ‘Nathaniel' had sat in a bar for thirty-five minutes while they remote-scanned him! Dumb as a hunkie, he would say.

Lotang would not join in the mirth. His mercurial mind would analyse the data, then ask the pertinent question: why would ‘Nathaniel' expose himself? This could create doubt in Lotang's mind. He would, however, know that the neutralisers Maximus was wearing would have foiled any measurements made when Maximus visited him. Maximus wanted Lotang to know that he knew.

But there he was, relaxing, having some downtime. Letting his guard down. Or so they thought.

Suddenly he froze.

He forced himself to act naturally. Raising the steaming kaf cup to his lips, he blew on it softly, and then sipped the brew while he gazed across the rim of the cup at Anneke Longshadow.

The young girl she had come in with was emaciated and frail. They ordered meals and spiced kaf. Anneke glanced around at the other patrons, her eyes flicking from Maximus to an arguing husband and wife at the end of the bar. She smiled in recollection. Then she turned her focus to the girl.

Maximus breathed out. Anneke hadn't penetrated his disguise; she was blissfully unaware that her archenemy was sitting only a few metres away. Maximus chuckled. This was an insane coincidence with galactic ramifications.

Discreetly, Maximus studied her. Seldom did a hunter see his prey going about its normal business. Maximus chided himself. He ought to finish his drink and get out of there. Rule number one of the predator's game: never meet your prey in their territory – or any territory – if you're unprepared. Still, he could not tear himself away from the bar. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

He watched how Anneke lifted her cup, how she held eating utensils, the order in which she used them. For Maximus, who made enemies readily, profiling opponents was essential. Usually missing from raw data was the minutiae of everyday-ness: the gestures that betrayed planetary and class origins, the body language that revealed profound psychological traits, the reactions and expressions that told unspoken stories.

Maximus was drunk on the data, glorying in the heady rush of information. Anneke was a true professional. It was evident in her body language, her dress, that she was impersonating a far less confident person. Someone perhaps who was compensating for her childhood inferiority, trying to prove herself to her parents. It was as though she had to be the best, no matter what. But Maximus wasn't fooled for one second. Beneath that camouflage was an agent every bit as good as he would expect from her reputation.

Maximus finished his drink and sauntered back to his hotel. His mind was on Anneke, but he was also aware of Lotang's attack dogs, never far away, still tracking and measuring him. Maximus speculated that later they would try to kill him, but their precision weapon would backfire. Quag would not be popular then. Maximus smiled, wondering how he could turn this situation to his advantage.

Locked in his hotel room Maximus ran a scan, ensuring no one had been there in his absence. He then turned his attention back to Anneke. Who was that child with her? What was their relationship? He would find out. Since the exporter's attack on her had failed, and he wasn't sure he could count on Lotang's self-interest to deal with the RIM agent, he started to formulate a plan for her permanent removal.

There was also Lotang, but he had him well in hand.

Sighing, he shelved thoughts of Anneke and fetched a metal briefcase from the in-room security vault. Gazing down at the vials, he felt excitement course through him like electricity. Such innocent-looking things – and yet their contents could plunge the galaxy into chaos …

If he could find a way to harness their power.

But he would have to wait till he returned to civilisation. A backwater dump like Reema's End was unlikely to have the highly specialised facilities he needed to analyse the macro-virus in colloidal suspension in the vials – much less establish its genetic fingerprint.

Then again, maybe he was wrong. Perhaps this place could provide him with interesting data after all. He would think about that. Meanwhile, he had another job to do.

Maximus's thin lips compressed into a line of white as he suppressed the pain. When the operator finished with the recalcifier, he grunted. The operator, an elderly Reeman with tiny wisps of thin white hair, nodded, impressed.

‘No pain, no gain,' he said. ‘You want a break?'

‘No breaks,' Maximus said tightly, sweat beading his forehead. ‘No breaks. Just get on with it.'

‘You're paying.'

Maximus's eyes widened as the man selected another medical instrument of torture from a stainless steel tray. He had found the specialist through his network of informants, though none of them knew Maximus was the recipient of the information. He had asked for the best body renovator, and supplied pictures and the DNA of the source.

Renovators were different to dermal reconstructors. They could mimic living or dead people with a host of alterations – body weight, height, voice, eye colour, skin tone and more. Reconstructors were glorified makeover specialists; renovators were true
artists.
And the cost was astronomical.

After several hours of work, Maximus rose unsteadily to his feet, shaking with the fatigue and the body-memory of pain. White-faced and drawn, he gazed into the full-length mirror field activated on the wall.

The face of Quag stared back at him.

Maximus stepped cautiously into the street, his hood shadowing his face. His target was a hundred metres up the walkway, gazing into storefront windows. The fool had no idea he was being followed nor that the minutes he had left on this satellite were coming to an end.

Maximus hung back, pretending to study a café menu, but in reality he was studying his prey. Quag, who had stopped to admire shape-changing trinkets in a jeweller's window, moved on, turning into a lane where most businesses were fronts for contraband.

Maximus kept him in sight. Fortunately, there was plenty of foot traffic, despite the late hour and the dimming of the orbital station's internal lights, simulating night.

Suddenly Quag staggered, and then steadied himself. Maximus realised that he'd spent the evening drinking with friends, some of whom would be of interest to Lotang. It appeared as though Quag fraternised with members of a rival Company, Imperial Standard, Lotang's arch rival. Somehow, Maximus doubted that any nascent
Majoris Corporata
had quelled the century-long feud that existed between these two corporations.

Quag moved from the lane into a maze of narrow access corridors no wider than ships' passageways. Maximus's retracer told him that Quag was heading in the direction of Lotang's base. So much the better.

Maximus waited till Quag entered a dimly lit, crooked corridor. Then, moving like lightning, he was behind Quag, pulling out his needler. The man, though drunk and bleary-eyed, nevertheless sensed something. Turning, he lost his balance and crashed into a wall.

His eyes bulged as they focused on the needler that was pointed at his forehead.

‘I ain't got no money!' he squealed.

‘That's good,' said Maximus. ‘Because I don't want any.'

‘W-w-what
do
yer want?'

Stepping into the light, Maximus threw back his hood. Quag flinched as he saw himself. Making a gesture that was so ancient that now few on this satellite would understand, he crossed himself.

Maximus laughed. ‘I want you, Quag. More to the point, I want to
be
you. Consider it a kind of flattery.'

The needler hissed.

The guards outside Lotang's headquarters turned at the noise, then relaxed. Renada, in charge of the security squad for the first time, scowled. Why did the fool have to get drunk on
his
watch? Now what was he supposed to do? He could ask others but he was boss tonight. If he was ever going to advance up the ranks, he needed to make his own decisions.

‘Rykis,' he snapped. ‘Get that bastard inside! Be quick will you?!'

Rykis hid his grin. They all knew Renada was uneasy about being in charge. Why, only yesterday he'd been an affiliate. Then Pitkin, the former squad boss, had gotten himself killed in a duel over a comfort girl. Furious, Lotang had forbidden duelling.

Rykis nodded at one of his comrades to help him escort the drunken Quag to his quarters, where they tossed him unceremoniously on to his bed. By the time they left, Quag was snoring heavily.

Rykis laughed. ‘Boss won't like this. Won't like it one little bit.'

As soon as they were gone, Maximus sat up, studying his surroundings. Quag's quarters were well furnished and gaudy, befitting the right-hand man of the boss. He even had a view window into starry space. It was a pity Quag would never gaze out of it again.