Straight ahead, a wide set of steps led down to the bottom tier, from which the music originated. The lower level was dominated by a crowded dance floor, but also possessed a wide stage, at least thirty tables, and a huge bar running nearly half the circumference of the space with more than a dozen beings stationed behind it, furiously mixing and serving drinks. Projected lights and images rained down from overhead, filling the air with motion and color—fearsome alien beasts, naked males and females, sleek vehicles, and abstract shapes, all moving, flashing, and fading in an endless holographic dance above the mass of writhing dancers.
Tenthil removed the Ergoth pin from his jacket as he scanned his surroundings, willing his eyes to adjust to the visual chaos. More of Drok’s security team were posted throughout the club, but the only ones openly carrying weapons were those stationed at the staircases leading to the upper tier—undoubtedly the VIP area.
He slipped the pin into his jacket pocket and walked around the middle level. He kept his eyes on the dancers as he moved but focused his attention on his peripheral vision to drink in the details of the club’s layout and security. The music from below was only deafening when he was near stairs leading down; there were likely sound-dampening fields set up around the stages to allow each its own clean audio. Each time he crossed into a different audience area, the music changed, sometimes drastically.
Several corridors and doors branched off the lower and middle tiers. Some were marked as restrooms in various alien languages—catering to so many species necessitated a variety of facilities to accommodate patrons—while the rest declared STAFF ONLY in at least a dozen languages beneath bold letters in universal speech.
The upper level extended over the middle far enough that Tenthil could see into it only from the opposite side of the ring. The few beings visible above were clad in rich attire, seated at tables that doubled as dancing platforms. A naked volturian female writhed atop one of the tables, surrounded by seated volturian males. The males were close enough to her that she must’ve felt their breath on her bare skin.
Tenthil rounded the tier to stop beneath the volturians. He leaned his arms on the railing, turned his face toward the lower level, and listened.
Countless sounds assaulted him in a chaotic jumble—the music from the nearest stage was the loudest of them, but the din of countless conversations and the thumping bass from the dance floor refused to be overpowered. He moved his head, and the qualities of the sound changed as his ears entered the dead space on the edge of the sound dampening field. It was there that he discovered what he’d sought—the lilting, flowing words of the volturians’ native tongue drifting down from above.
His translator implant granted him understanding of the complex language; the volturian males were arguing over who would get a turn with the female first.
Despite the numerous dampening fields, sound traveled well enough from the VIP level for Tenthil to overhear nearby conversations. That could prove valuable; the Master always appreciated his acolytes bringing new secrets when they returned to the temple from their work around the city.
After scanning the upper level again, Tenthil moved on to the mid-level doors marked as restroom access. All three led into long corridors with high ceilings, two of which seemed high enough to overlap the space occupied by the third floor. Those taller halls possessed heavy-duty hatches near the centers of their ceilings. The latching mechanisms on both hatches appeared to be manual wheel cranks. Such mechanisms were common throughout both the Undercity and the Bowels beneath it, but not in places like this, where security and modernity were presented as paramount.
Either the hatches were fused shut or the owner of the establishment thought them too far out of reach to be vulnerable to intrusion.
Tenthil stepped aside for a passing group of Ergoths, glad he’d removed the pin; if these thugs had found him impersonating one of their own, it would’ve meant a fight, and Tenthil wasn’t quite done with this place. Getting thrown out by security for bloodying some Ergoths would only make it more difficult for Tenthil when he came back here to close his current contract.
He assessed the walls and ceiling around the hatch; for the first five meters, the walls were smooth and wide-set, broken only by random pulses of neon that moved like radiant serpents racing through the dark of the Void. Though invisible to the naked eye when not illuminated, Tenthil recognized the lights for what they were—infinitesimal imperfections of which he could take advantage. Beyond the smooth sections, dozens of exposed pipes, ducts, and conduits would make the rest of the climb effortless.
Best to check the hatches before I leave tonight, should an opportunity arise.
Leaving one of them unlatched would provide an easy entrance for his next visit—when he’d be a bit less inclined to follow the weapon-check policy at the front entrance.
He exited the corridor and returned to the railing overlooking the lower floor, fixing his gaze on the dancers below. This time, he kept his attention on the uppermost edge of his vision. Drok, if present at all, was most likely behind one of the STAFF ONLY doors or up on the third floor.
Tenthil had come to accept the simple truth of his work long ago—no amount of training, planning, or skill could completely cancel out the effects of chance. Even the Void—which, according to the Master, touched everything—could not overcome the randomness of the universe.
Chance was at play when Tenthil lifted his head just as a huge, heavily muscled tralix descended the steps from the third floor and emerged on the middle tier directly across from him. The left prong of the tralix’s forehead crest was broken off, and his mottled teal and violet skin was covered with old scars, including a prominent one on his cheek.
This was Tenthil’s target. This was Drok.
Drok turned to face the small entourage that had arrived—a long-necked ertraxxan with skin the color of old bruises clad in upper-class attire and four well-dressed, broad-shouldered vorgals who were undoubtedly his personal security—and offered them a wide, tusk-filled smile. He and the ertraxxan clasped hands. Though Drok had to be twice the mass of his guest, the ertraxxan maintained a dignified air, displaying neither intimidation nor subservience. All this happened over the course of a few seconds, and Tenthil paid little mind to the meeting.
Though Tenthil was grateful for his first in-person glimpse of his target, his attention had been caught by the sixth member of the ertraxxan’s group—a pale-skinned female with dark hair that lightened to blue toward its tips.
He knew her species only due to the Master’s insistence on his acolytes maintaining familiarity of every alien race known to inhabit Arthos, the Infinite City, and that familiarity focused on anatomy to ensure efficient kills. Only the most powerful and influential species—the six races which comprised the Consortium, the rulers of the city—had been omitted from those studies.
This female was a terran, a race that only recently begun official migration to Arthos. She was the first of her kind Tenthil had seen outside of holograms.
And she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
She was tall and slender, wearing clothing that revealed enticing patches of her pale skin, and her hair shimmered in the ever-changing light.
Stepping aside, Drok waved the ertraxxan and his entourage toward the stairs. The ertraxxan, wearing a displeased frown—which seemed to be the default expression for his kind—lifted his chin and led his people up. Tenthil held his gaze on the terran until she was out of sight; she moved with a subtle sway to her hips and an unspoken grace in her lithe limbs.