Radiance

West ran a hand through his hair and silently chastised himself. He could not remember the last time someone else's tears drove him to do something so humanitarian. Not only had he given away more than enough money to buy himself a ride back to Earth, but he also lost everything he had when he came into the casino. Financially, Tristan West was back to square one. Sighing, he scanned the crowd, looking for Payat. "Hey, Bub!" The flat, raw-metal voice came from several inches above West's head. He turned around slowly, dreading what he knew would be there. His eyes met the swell of a tuxedoed chest. They climbed ... and climbed ... and met the photobionic eyes of a cyborg. The creature's red lips slowly crept across its flushed, skull-like face in a wicked smile. It was a common characteristic of the cyborgs, the red face and sweating brow. Part of their transformation into mechanized monsters involved almost continuous electro-stimulation of their adrenal glands. While this added to their incredible strength, it left each one looking as if he had just run a hundred-meter sprint. It also had the unfortunate tendency to burn them out like overcharged light bulbs in just a few short years. Perhaps that explains this particular cyborg's always-quirky, sometimes-deadly sense of humor. "Well, well, well,” the cyborg said, wagging its head. “Tristan West, of all people. I thought I recognized your ugly bio face on the monitors." West was completely terrified. He mentally kicked himself for coming to the Cathedral in the first place. I finally helped that little twerp Payat, and now I'm gonna get killed for it. "Well, bless my soul, it's Dal," he observed, swallowing his fear. "I thought Lateinos had you pulling kitchen duty down the street at Marco's." Dal chuckled good-naturedly. "It seems the previous head of the Cathedral Guard Squad met with ... an unfortunate accident. Something involving a ground car and a brick wall. Terrible business, just terrible." West raised an eyebrow. "And you won his slot. Funny how fate works, isn't it?" "Speaking of fate, my dear friend Tristan, I heard Mister Lateinos say that if you ever showed up here again, you'd most likely meet yours." "Really?" West responded, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'm just like all your other customers. I come in, spend a few credits, then go home. No harm done. In fact, I just hit it big on this slot machine." "I heard that as well. We had a complaint about you. Seems you barged in front of another patron at that machine, popped in a credit chip, and rang the bell. The customer thinks that should be his money, and I agree." "That's not quite how it happened, Dal, but it doesn't matter. Turned it all over to a little old lady from Pasadena. You know me, too charitable for my own good." "Yes, too charitable. I'm afraid 'your own good' will not fare well this time. Come with me." West knew better. Going with Dal was as suicidal as jumping off one of the Cathedral's spires—which, come to think of it, might be what the cyborg had in mind. This time, however, the surroundings were on West's side. Dal would not make a public scene over something like this. At least I hope not. "Well, it's been great seeing you again, Dal," he said, reaching out to grasp and pump the cyborg's only flesh-and-blood hand, "but I've got to be moving along. Ta-ta!" He let go and turned to make his break. Somebody shoved a laser pistol against his nose. "Uh-uh, West," the security guard said—a human, one of Oswald Terrell's men, wearing the black vest and white visored helmet of the Modos Security force. "We've been keeping an eye out for you. Can't go disappointing Mister Lateinos now, can we?" "Look, gents," Tristan said nervously, "we don't have to be messy about this. How about if I just kinda go along quietly, and we can talk?" "Is there a problem here?" No! Not now! Keeping in mind the laser pistol and the itchy trigger finger caressing it, West moved only his eyes and caught a glimpse of a familiar brown bodysuit. Behind West, Dal turned his attention to the newcomer and rumbled, "Nothing you need concern yourself with. Move along." Whatever you do, Payat, don't tell them you're with me! West prayed. "When I saw you detaining my friend…." Well, so much for that. "You're with West?" Dal asked. Payat nodded, deadly serious. "He has introduced me to this rather chilling pastime of yours. Personally, I believe gambling is a dangerous circle that can destroy a person financially and morally." He brightened. "But it certainly is fun to watch!" "I don't care about your opinion of gambling, and if you're with West here, you'll have to come with me." "I do not believe so." Dal grunted. "Then it's time to change your beliefs." He reached for Payat and grabbed a handful of brown cloth. Because Tristan, still sniffing the barrel of the laser pistol, did not dare turn around, he missed most of what happened next. Dal suddenly squealed—an appalling sound coming from a cyborg—and a split-second later went hurling over West's head, crashing into the number 12 slot machine and setting off a brilliant display of sparks and crackles. The security guard in front of West looked that way. "What in the—!" Tristan saw his chance. Grasping the pistol and shoving it aside, he socked the guard squarely in the chin. His fingers exploded in pain, but the blow dropped the guard like a stone. Flipping the gun around, West turned to Payat and shouted, "We gotta get out of here now!" "A wise decision," Payat observed, moving quickly toward the distant oak doors. The guards who poured into the casino at the far end of the room didn’t even bother ordering the fleeing pair to halt. They merely opened fire—mostly for show, because they did not want to hit any of the other customers. That worked to West's benefit. As screaming gamblers dropped to the floor in terror, ruby-red beams crisscrossed the gaming floor, bouncing off stone walls with sizzles and puffs of smoke. One beam exploded just behind Tristan as he scrambled up the carpeted stairs. "The chandelier, Mister West!" Payat cried. "This is no time to admire the lighting!" Payat actually took the time to look disgusted. "Use your pistol!" Tristan suddenly realized what he meant. Turning around, he took careful aim at the huge chandelier over the craps tables and pulled the trigger. In a few short seconds the energy beam sliced through the chandelier's supports, and the glistening monstrosity tumbled downward. It shattered tables like balsa wood and sent most of the guards diving for cover. When West turned back to his escape route, he saw Payat already slipping out the door. Hey! He's abandoning me! Tristan considered shooting his fellow escapee. Instead, he channeled his anger into speed, climbing the few remaining steps in an instant and flying out of the Cathedral into the twilight. The marble stairs outside were crowded with people—perfect for an escape. Shoving them out of the way and waving his pistol to show he meant business, West descended the steps to the square and looked for Payat. The stranger had disappeared. "Why, that no-good—" "Hold it, West!" Laser beams danced around the square as half a dozen guards reached the Cathedral entrance above and opened fire. The people around Tristan screamed. Ducking, he tried to sneak through the sea of panic-gripped bodies, hoping the guards would lose him in the melee. As he reached the south end of the square, he caught a glimpse of a figure dressed in brown, running around the corner of a building. He took off after him, ignoring the shouts and the red beams that snapped against the lunacrete behind him. "All right, Payat!" he shouted. "You'd better wait, or I'll shoot you myself!" He rounded the building. The street beyond it was straight—and abandoned. Payat was gone. Staring up the quiet, darkening roadway, spurred by the shouts and footf