“It could be a trap,” I say. “We need to adjust—”
Victra laughs scornfully, cutting me off.
—
One level down, we meet our first security team. Half a dozen lurchers stand in front of large glass door that ripples like the surface of a pond. They wear black suits instead of military armor. Implants in the shape of silver heels stick out from the skin behind their left ears. There’s more patrolling this level, but no servants. Several Grays in similar suits took a coffee cart into the room a few minutes earlier. Strange that they wouldn’t use Pinks or Browns for delivering coffee. Security is tight. So whoever is in Quicksilver’s office must be important. Or at least very paranoid.
Ragnar and Victra go first around the corner, ghostCloaks bending the light. The rest of us follow at a dead sprint. One of the Grays squints down the hall at us. The implanted thermal optics in his irises throb red as they activate and see the heat radiating from our battery packs. “GhostCloaks!” he shouts. Six sets of practiced hands flow to scorchers. Far too late. Ragnar and Victra tear into them. Ragnar swings his razor, cutting off one’s arm and severing the jugular of another. Blood sprays over the glass walls. Victra fires her silenced scorcher. Magnetically hurled slugs slam into two heads. I slide forward between falling bodies. Stick my razor through a man’s rib cage. Feeling the pop and give of his heart. I retract my blade into whip form to free it. Let it stiffen again back to my slingBlade before the man drops.
The Grays haven’t managed to fire a single shot. But one has pressed a button on his datapad, and the deep throbbing sound of the tower’s alarm echoes down the hall. The walls pulse red, signaling an emergency. Sevro cuts the last man down.
Something’s wrong. I feel it in my gut, but Victra and Sevro are propelling this forward. And Ragnar’s kicking in the door. Ever a slave to momentum, I plunge in after him.
Quicksilver’s conference room is less flamboyant than the rooms above. Its ceiling is ten meters high. Its walls are of digital glass that swirls subtly with silver smoke. Two rows of marble pillars run parallel on either side of a giant onyx conference table with a dead white tree rising from its center. At the far end of the room, a huge viewing window looks out at the industry of the Hive. Regulus ag Sun, hailed from Mercury to Pluto as Quicksilver, richest man under the sun, stands before the window, mauling a glass of red wine with a fleshy hand.
He’s bald. Forehead wrinkled as a washboard. Pugilist lips. Hunched simian shoulders leading to butcher fingers that sprout from the sleeves of a high-collared Venusian turquoise robe embroidered with apple trees. He’s in his sixties. Skin bronzed with a marrow-deep tan. A small goatee and mustache accent his face in a vain attempt to give it shape, though it seems he’s stayed away from Carvers for the most part. His feet are bare. But it’s his three eyes that demand attention. Two are heavy-lidded and Silver. An earthy, efficient shade. The third is Gold and implanted in a simple silver ring the man wears on the middle finger of his fat right hand.
We’ve interrupted his meeting.
Nearly thirty Coppers and Silvers pack the room. They’re formed into two parties and sit across from one another at a giant’s onyx table littered with coffee cups, wine carafes, and datapads. A blue holo document floats in the air between the two factions, obviously the object of their attention until the door shattered inward. Now they push back from the table, most too stunned yet to feel fear, or to even see us as the Howlers enter the room in ghostCloaks. But it isn’t just Coppers and Silvers at the table.
