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She remembered how his hands clamped cruelly
tight on her face, how he glared into her eyes. Once
again she heard his growling voice: "I'll break your
beautiful little neck."
Humiliation filled her, thickening in her chest, al-
most suffocating her. It was all Brigid Baptiste's
fault, that barren, frigid bitch who had never known
passion of any kind, but who had somehow awakened
it in Kane.
Baptiste didn't know how to treat a man, certainly
not a man like Kane. At least Rouch tried to convince
herself of that. She had tried to convince Kane of the
same thing, and he had responded with threats. She
paused by a case, noting the array of small-caliber
handblasters displayed inside it. Her eyes swept over
them, then settled on a blue-finished Heckler & Koch
P- 7 M-8 with a stippled black plastic stock.
Impulsively, she opened the case door and re-
moved the blaster, hefting it one-handed, then in
both. The lightweight P- 7 M-8 was only a little over
six inches long and therefore fairly easy to conceal.
In a cabinet drawer, she found a clip loaded with
eight 9 mm Parabellum rounds. Slapping the clip into
the blaster's butt, she experimented with the front-
mounted squeeze cocker, strap cocking the action.
Rouch liked the feel of the weapon. Whether she
had to fire it was totally up to Baptiste.
Unzipping the seal of her bodysuit's right boot
sock, she inserted the blaster, tightened the tabs and
left the armory, making sure to turn out the lights.
Despite the weight of the blaster, Beth-Li's step
was sprightly. For the first time in weeks, she felt
good about herself.
Chapter 8
The lift disk hissed to a pneumatic stop and Abrams
opened the door, striding across the down ramp and
into the baron's suite. His body was encased by the
black polycarbonate battle armor, the helmet tucked
under his left arm.
The close-fitting exoskeleton was molded to con-
form to the biceps, triceps, pectorals and abdomen.
Even with its Kevlar undersheathing, the armor was
lightweight and had the ability to redistribute kinetic
shock resulting from projectile impact. A small, disk-
shaped badge of office was emblazoned on the left
pectoral, depicting a crimson, stylized, balanced
scales of justice superimposed over a nine-spoked
wheel.
The helmet under Abrams's arm was of the same
color and material, except for the slightly concave,
red-tinted visor. The visor provided protection for the
eyes, and the electrochemical polymer was connected
to a passive night sight that intensified ambient light
to permit one-color night vision.
He knew he made an incongruous sight, dressed
as a hard-contact Mag yet leaning on his walking
stick as he strode through the foyer. The foyer was
magnificent, as was every room in the suite. Glitter-
ing light cast from many crystal chandeliers flooded
every comer of the entrance hall. At the far end of
the foyer, flanking huge ivory-and-gold inlaid double
doors, were two members of the elite Baronial Guard.
At his approach, the guards opened the doors, and
the one on his right said colorlessly, "The lord baron
awaits you in his private audience chamber."
The doors shut behind him, and as he expected, he
saw nothing but a deep, almost primal dark. The
baron's level was the only one in the Administrative
Monolith without windows. Abrams walked forward,
heading toward the dim glow of a single light shining
over an open door. He had never visited the baron's
private chamber before. As far as he knew, only La-
kesh had been granted that privilege.
Baron Cobalt sat alone inside the curve of a small,
horseshoe-shaped desk. Rows of buttons and toggle
switches lay within easy reach of his delicate fingers.
If the baron pressed one button, his guard promptly
appeared. If he pushed another button, his personal
staff came.
When he entered, Abrams stood stiffly at attention
beside the door frame. "As per your order, I am re-
porting that the recce team is preparing to embark.
The baron glanced at him with dull, distracted eyes
and said in a surprisingly mild voice, "Please come
in, Abrams."
He did so, marching to the desk and stopping be-
side the one chair. Baron Cobalt waved him to it
"Sit down, my good friend. I wish to talk to you."
Abrams eased his body into it, placing the red-
visored helmet on his lap. "My lord baron. How may
I be of service to you?'
Baron Cobalt shifted in his chair, pursing his lips
meditatively. "My good friend. That's what 1 called
Lakesh. Several months ago he sat where are you
sitting now, and 1 asked him for counsel. Now 1 ask
it of you."
Abrams couldn't help but feel uneasy. Since La-
kesh was abducted by Kane, Grant and Salvo, the
baron haa essentially quarantined himself from all
one-on-one contact with members of the Trust. He
had heard that isolation even extended to his personal
staff. He had devoted much thought to the whys and
wherefores, since they seemed fairly obvious-shame
because he had been duped by Salvo, self-anger that
he had not uncovered the conspiracy right under his
aquiline nose until its goal was achieved.
"What do you wish of me, my lord?" Abram&'
asked, inclining his head toward him.
"I told Salvo 1 fell prey to errors of judgment, ~
1 never made mistakes. Do you recall that?"
Abrams did indeed recall that, as vividly as if it.
had happened only an hour ago. Salvo, the com-
mander of the Magistrate Division and Abrams's
chief lieutenant, and a member of the Trust, had been
revealed as a traitor-a conspirator involved with
Kane to overthrow the barony from within.
The scheme had been complicated with a number
of diversions, including the pretense of commanding
the Grudge task force, which was devoted to tracking
down Kane, Grant and Baptiste. Salvo had abducted
Lakesh and placed the blame for the entire conspir-
acy on Abrams himself.
The frame job had been Salvo's fatal miscalcula-
tion, because it was too convenient for even the para-
noid Baron Cobalt to easily accept.
Salvo had apparently gambled that the baron
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