Blood Will Tell by Christine Pope Page B

against her back.
    But once they entered the security station, the main viewscreen did show the same ore-processor-on-steroids vehicle Miala had seen the other night, although it looked odd in the harsh sunlight, its dark sides gleaming with a peculiar oily shine. The light on the comm station was blinking, indicating an incoming transmission.
    Thorn went straight to the comm, although Miala noticed he was careful to toggle the switch that changed the outgoing signal to audio only before he allowed the message to come up on-screen.
    Immediately the viewscreen filled with the not-altogether-pleasant image of Rafe Darlester, who sat in a large command chair that was flanked by a pair of well-muscled goons, both human, although the one on the right had the broadest shoulders she had ever seen, and she guessed he had been dipping into some black-market steroids. Darlester had fixed what he apparently thought was a pleasant smile on his face, although the impression was spoiled somewhat by a pair of platinum-capped incisors. He leaned toward the viewer slightly and said, “Greetings, defenders of Mast’s holdings! I feel that perhaps we got off on the wrong foot the other evening—may I know whom I have the honor of addressing?”
    Miala raised her eyebrows at Thorn, who shook his head slightly even as he gave her a brief, tight grin. Did this Darlester person think he was speaking to members of the Consortium Council or something?
    “That information is not necessary for our conversation,” Eryk Thorn said, after a pause. “What do you want, Darlester?”
    The smuggler’s pouchy eyes tightened briefly before he replied, “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You have my name, but I don’t have yours. In addition, you keep your face from me. I would not call this a promising prelude to negotiations.”
    Smoothly, Thorn said, “Call me a lieutenant to Mast, if you must.”
    “Then perhaps you should consider giving yourself a battlefield promotion, considering that your master is now scattered in a thousand pieces across the Arkellian wastes.” Again Darlester leaned toward the viewer. He did not improve on close-up. “And judging by the amount of other body parts we found near the Malverdine Cliffs, it appears that most, if not all, of Mast’s coterie perished with him. Were you planning on defending the compound alone...indefinitely?”
    “Only until I got rid of you,” Thorn returned, and Miala couldn’t help but smile. She got the feeling that Eryk Thorn ate guys like Rafe Darlester for breakfast.
    Darlester’s platinum-accented smile grew a little tight around the edges. Still, his voice was smooth enough as he replied, “You may find that a little more difficult this time around. And after all, I’m only trying to reclaim what’s mine.”
    “What’s yours?” Thorn echoed.
    “A rather large shipment of silk, which Mast stole from my warehouses. You understand—I’m just a legitimate businessman trying to make my way in the galaxy. It’s difficult when the competition steals your product.”
    “So you came in here, guns blazing, all to recover a stolen silk shipment.” Thorn’s tone was neutral, but somehow he managed to convey a wealth of skepticism in that very blandness.
    “One can never be too careful,” Darlester replied, settling back into his oversized chair. The goons to either side of him crossed their arms, and Miala watched, fascinated, at the display of rippling muscle this action precipitated.
    “So if I return this missing silk, we can call it even?”
    Darlester smiled then, a smile as oily and unpleasant as the finish on his oversized ore processor. “Not quite. You see, I incurred significant damages the other evening—loss of personnel, repairs to my vehicle, that sort of thing. I expect to be compensated.”
    “I would call those justifiable damages, considering you attacked the compound first.”
    The smuggler didn’t even blink. “Not at all. We were forced to