Like taverns everywhere that cater to clandestine activities limited by various ill-conceived statutes, the Tarry A’Dea let rooms on its second level for various periods of time, some measured in minutes, some in years. During prolonged absences from their normal surroundings, people become lonely or bored, and biological relief without the complications of emotional attachments can be had, like any other goods or services, for a price. [You pay someone to cut your hair, right? Although you could cut it yourself, someone else, properly trained, makes a better job of it, right?] On the way to the stairs and up, I received no less than three come-hithers, including one from a young woman whose maculate attire and disheveled condition clearly bespoke a desperation for funds. Passing her by, I scrawled a mental note to have Big Gooey present her with a complimentary meal or two, and arrange for her to “find” a couple leafs of folded currency. As to the other offers, while I certainly appreciate a man who comes and goes, I was not in the mood. Tsebieh had vanished from the booth, but now that we had established contact, however tenuous, she might pop in at any time. And there are some activities that should not be popped-in upon.

I’d taken a room at the far end of the hallway, next to the emergency exit—events that constitute emergencies are not limited to fires, and in my line of work it’s always prudent to have multiple escape routes. The touchpad on the wall beside the doorjamb accepted the code Gooey had given me, and as the door slid open the traditional odors of old exhalations, stale love, and something edible left out too long whistled past me and down the hallway like liberated ghosts. A dim ceiling panel began to glow at a touch to the wall pad, yielding just enough light for me to see that the single room was unoccupied and that the bed was empty, covered, and too small for two—although, to be fair, couples in this room seldom slept far apart, if at all. The single window was closed, the heavy drapes pulled, and I doubted there was enough light to silhouette me to the casual viewer outside. In the shadows of a far corner stood a rack on which I might hang my clothing, and beside that a commode and a sink. If I wanted a shower, I’d have to use the common room.

The bed squeaked when I sat down, further dampening any nocturnal ambitions I might have had. There were places in the Universe where the rhythms of life were accompanied by cheers and applause, but not here, where yielding bedsprings announced the vulnerability of one or both of the participants to anyone who would do harm. Perforce celibate, I could only wait for developments, and doze cautiously in the meantime.

I reckoned more than half the night had passed by the time Tsebieh entered. She did not use the door. In one moment I was alone, in the next she was standing before me, and in the next I had the ancient military automatic pistol out and aimed at her gut.

She withdrew a pace. “What is that?”

I carry a pistol because most security detectors are keyed to plastic and energy cells, not to metal, and because fi ring it makes enough noise to startle an adversary, a useful advantage in the event the first bullet fails to fi nd its mark. I did not tell her this.

“Next time, knock.”

Long ago Tsebieh had been developed as an alien sentient species—they’d done good work on her. The light that shone from above and behind her cast her face in delicate grays and glows, the humanizing effect startling, and I averted my eyes, blinking away the entrancement.

“I’m not going back there.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Just get me inside.”

“You’re insane.”

And I thought, Insane is what they did to you.

Between the booth and now she’d changed to a rugged travel outfit of cammie jacket and denims, and sturdy black boots. Chthonia is not known for ease of terrain. She’d made up her mind to flee into the hinterlands.

So why come to see me?

I patted the bed beside me. “Sit down, Tsebieh.”

Given what usually took place in this room, her hesitation was understandable. But she obeyed, maintaining a discreet forearm-length of distance between us, pale eyes wary in the dim light. A hint of lilac mixed with the musk she emitted, the blend as effective as pheromones. In my research I had not considered how the spliced DNA might affect her sexuality, except to hypothesize that they would not want her to reproduce unless it was under their auspices. Now, in proximity, she became a liability to my personal and mission security.

“The firewall is impenetrable,” Tsebieh said in a low voice, hands clasped between her knees as if to avoid gestures and, perhaps, physical contact. “Passwords comprise the respective DNA of those few who are authorized access. And GenTail will backtrace any attempt to access data, even to Chthonia.” She turned her face toward me. Eyes the color of fresh rainwater sought answers from mine. Once again I felt as if I were a snake rising from the basket to the rhythm of her charms, gently swaying. “Surely you are aware of this. Yet you have a plan you must think will work, else why come here.”

I forced myself to look away, to break the hypnotic hold. “If you are about to leave, this no longer matters to you.”

“They will find me. They will trace me through you.”

Light filled the room in that moment and haloed the dark figure who entered. A millisecond too late I recognized the destitute woman on the stairs—still disheveled, but now aiming an energy weapon. I did a tuck and roll and came up with my own weapon. And in the next instant Tsebieh was holding the pistol. Five times it bucked in her hand, the reports slamming off the walls as if we were inside a barrel, and the woman spilled back through the doorway.

Leaving me on one knee, on the fl oor, staring in disbelief at my own empty hand.

The tavern shook, and I knew it was Big Gooey, stomping down the hallway. At the door he paused over the body on the floor, then turned a face like a parboiled walrus on me.

Before he could vent his rage over the violation of his establishment, Tsebieh said, “She tried to protect me, Gooey. She had nothing to do with it. This is something else.”

I rose and crept warily to the corpse—bodies, like weapons, are always presumed to be loaded unless you unload them yourself. This one had a crimson quincunx just under the sternum. You could have covered all five dots with a coaster.

On the floor under the woman, a puddle began to form. Its color matched that of the splatters and streaks down the fractured wall opposite the doorway.

“You use hollow points?” said Tsebieh, hushed, as she passed the pistol back to me.

I tucked it under my belt and pulled the jersey over it. “It’s not a toy,” I said. “And what I do is not a game.”

“I think both of you should leave now,” said Big Gooey.