Starblood

said, "His brother is trying to kill me."
    Surprisingly, her response to this was not as naive as her comment about Klaus. "I don't like Jon," she said. "Klaus you could always have fun with. He enjoyed life. I never saw Jon smile. I think he would have liked to take me away from Klaus. But he frightened me a little."
    "I want to get Jon Margle before he gets me," he said.
    Her face went sickeningly pale, and she took a long sip of her drink.
    He realized what had terrified her, and he attempted to explain what he meant. "I don't mean kill him. I just want to get him, for the police. If they want to execute him, they can. Or put him away for life. But I have to find some way to get something on him, or I won't have peace of mind."
    She ordered another drink, took the plastic bulb out of the receival tray, broke it and poured the contents into her glass. "I don't understand what you want of me," she said, her hands trembling.
    "You must know other people in the Brethren."
    "No," she said, clearly meaning it.
    Her answer unsettled him for a moment, and then he realized how ignorant she might have been of Klaus Margle's other self. "You know some of his close friends?"
    "Yes, but they aren't—"
    "Let me decide what they are and aren't," he said. "I want you to think very carefully about Klaus's friends. Was there any one of them who disliked his brother?"
    "Many," she said.
    "Good. But think about them and come up with the one who liked Jon the least. Maybe someone who was terrified of him. Or contemptuous. Someone who would not like working under him."
    "I don't have to do any of this," she said, genuine anguish in her voice. "Why should I even sit here and listen to you tell me Klaus and his friends were gangsters?"
    "Because they were," he said. "And if you don't cooperate on this little thing I want, I'll use the voice of
Enterstat
to discredit you, to ruin your career."
    "Impossible!" she said, looking up, defiant. She was a good actress, and she knew it.
    "Not if I lie," he said. "We'll fake evidence and write atrocious lies. And sure, you'll take us to court. But by then you'll be ruined. And even if you get a million or so in settlement, it can be absorbed by
Enterstat
—not easily, I admit, but without ruining me. And I think you much prefer the art of acting to the money it makes for you. You are primarily an actress, not a moneymaker. Being blackballed from senso-films would hurt emotionally, not financially." He saw that she believed him, but that she could hardly accept that anyone would be this cruel to her—or to anyone, for that matter. He had cracked her naivete, and he was not exactly pleased with himself. "It's my life," he said in a way of explanation and justification for his crudity.
    "I think I know the man you need," she said.
    "When can I get in touch with him?" He was not happy with the way she slumped now, with the way he had broken her spirit.
    "I can't just go phone him, if Jon is as deadly as people say. It will have to be—discreet."
    "Tomorrow," he said. "Make an excuse to see him if you must. But I can't wait longer than tomorrow. I might be dead if you don't help me soon." He laid a card with his comscreen number on it on the coffee table. "Call me as soon as it's arranged."
    "Tomorrow," she said dismally.
    He felt terrible. The yearning and the hollowness in him had been augmented now by a feeling of brutishness, of insensitivity. But, damn, it, this was the only way to reach the girl, and through her was the only way to reach someone within the Brethren structure who might be willing, for the proper consideration, to turn over information that would send Jon Margle up the river. "Tell him the money is unlimited. Almost any price he names within reason."
    He found his own way out. It seemed like several thousand
miles
…
    Almost twenty-four hours later to the minute, in the middle of Wednesday afternoon, she called him. Her face, larger than life on the comscreen, was painfully beautiful, though in no way as fascinating as it had been in person. She avoided his eye, staring at points beyond him in the room, staring down at her own hands which—he thought—twitched and intertwined in her lap. She spoke softly, almost inaudibly, like a small, embarrassed child. He could not understand this. Had she been frightened, he could have reasoned why. But embarrassment? "In an hour," she said. "My place again."
    "I'm afraid not," he countered, wishing that she would look him in the eyes