Habu. James B. Johnson

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      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1989, 2012 by James B. Johnson

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      For Beverly, of course

      CHAPTER ONE

      REUBIN FLOOD

      Reubin rode the tube from the shuttle apprehensively. There had to be an explanation. What had happened to Alex?

      He’d been lucky to make it to Snister. This star liner was the last scheduled to and from the planet for months.

      Other passengers stood or sat, waiting to arrive at cen­tral processing. Reubin guessed they used a shuttle here on Snister to better control the arrival and departure of people and cargo. Which meant too much governmental control and some sort of closed society.

      When his wife had failed to arrive on Webster’s as planned, he’d dropped his business in the sector capital and hopped a starship for Snister. Alexandra was sup­posed to join him, and then they were to take the Long Life treatment, and ship out for the frontier, ending their pre­vious lives and beginning new lives together.

      Supposed to, he thought.

      The tube bumped and stopped. The far end opened and people filed off in the usual disorderly manner of civilians.

      When the starship had neared Snister, he’d tried to ra­dio Alexandra. No luck. Snister’s central locator con­tained no record of her. He’d remembered Alexandra’s daughter: Tique Sovereign. Yes, there was a listing for Tequilla Sovereign. “Put me through, please.” No re­sponse. “I’ll leave a message.” Reubin gave his name and the message, “Am arriving 1500 local on shuttle. Where is Alex?”

      Surprisingly, the processing agents at passport control were efficient.

      Walking up the concourse afterward, he came out into the waiting area. Scenes he’d witnessed hundreds of times before. Families reuniting. Businessmen threading through the throng.

      With little hope of success, he scanned the crowd. No sign of Alex—wait...no, not her. Against the far wall, he saw a woman leaning in the shadows, staring out a bubble toward the landing area.

      Tique. Alex had showed him a holo of her daughter once. “Pronounce it like ‘Teak,’” she’d said. One of the things Reubin liked about the Long Life Institute and their dictatorial policies was that by definition everybody was forced to speak Federation English.

      Tique had turned to survey the new arrivals and obvi­ously spotted him at once.

      She was a woman with curly auburn hair, quite as at­tractive as her mother but in a different, more angular way. Her eyes were quick and intelligent. She wore one of those half jumpsuit-half skirt things Reubin didn’t un­derstand. The height of fashion, no doubt. She shook her head and moved toward him.

      He searched her face for some clue. Words and greet­ings bubbled around him as he arrowed toward Alexan­dra’s daughter. His subconscious was sending warning signals to his other self.

      He stopped.

      She stopped. “You would be Reubin Flood?” Her words were cool.

      “I am. Where’s Alex?” Something was dead wrong.

      “You didn’t receive my message on Webster’s?”

      “No. When she didn’t arrive, I headed here. We’ve been in transpace.”

      “Let us get out of the crowd,” Tique said as a man jostled her, looked at her and twice at Reubin and mum­bled an apology.

      A nameless dread began to seep through Reubin, outward from his gut, grinding through him like a throbbing poison. The beast within him came to a higher level of awareness. He followed her, asserting his control.

      Tique stopped at the bubble, glanced out, and turned to face Reubin, “My name is Tique—”

      “I know. It was that or your mother would have gotten a tattoo. Where is she?” His voice was rough, demand­ing.

      “I...she’s dead. Mother is dead.”

      He’d known it. He could smell death from afar. Not again. Not now. “How?” The word sat harsh between them. A familiar, deadly tremor began deep inside him.

      “Heart attack.” Her face was impassive. Did she blame him for her mother’s death? How could she?

      But Reubin didn’t care. It had been centuries since he’d felt about a woman the way he had about Alex Sovereign. Why was he so awkward about the term “love?” They’d met under strange circumstances and forged a friendship which quickly turned to romance. A comfortable feeling of well-being and togetherness. A long buried rage boiled and rose and rose. He spent a moment controlling the now familiar feeling, and forcing it back. Control. Now was the time for control. Can you not let me have my grief? he asked. The lurk­ing presence did not respond.

      The shock was still spreading through him, stunning him. Dazed, Reubin looked at life going on around him. A child dragged a Raggedy Ann doll across the tile. Peo­ple swirled in groups or alone, some talking happily, oth­ers hurrying, anxious to be home and away from this place.

      Not again, he thought. A bitter taste rose in his throat. A primal slithering began in his soul. His first response wasn’t the grief, the sorrow he knew intellectually would assail him later. Rather, outrage grew in him like gorge rising. It threatened to overwhelm him; the serpent within recognized the trigger and fed on the outrage and the internal chaos that outrage produced. Reubin struggled for control, all the while watching the woman Tique cat­alog the emotions running across his face.

      She stepped back.

      The tremor peaked.*Let me out,* the serpent urged, already close to the surface.

      -No. Not now. Reubin’s emotions were being ravaged by the realization Alex was dead and his control had slipped.

      Reasserting control, he swiveled to face Tique. “No­body dies of a heart attack. Not anymore.” He was aware his voice had turned to ice. Alex was dead.

      “Yes, they do,” Tique replied. “It is not frequent, but it does occur. Especially in people who haven’t had a treatment in over eighty years standard. And especially in people who’ve had a lot of LLI treatments.”

      He shook his head. He didn’t want to believe it.

      “Look,” Tique’s voice was accusing, “you’ve got me defending my own mother’s death! I don’t want to do that thing. Don’t do this to me.”

      Reubin saw how close to the edge Tique was. He re­inforced his control. “Let’ss get out of here.”

      She cocked her head at his sibilance, then turned and walked off.

      They went down the concourse. At the baggage drop, he punched in his pax code and his single case appeared in the mouth of the chute.

      Her back was stiff with resentment. At least she’d had some time СКАЧАТЬ