"Heywood came last, drifting in on gravity beams," he whispered, moving aside that she might see. "No one saw him arrive ... nor his cargo."
"What ships are those?" she asked, peering down.
"Gion's. Escape craft. The regular cradles on the open field could go, but he keeps ships here in this forgotten blow-hole, unmarked and unknown. Insurance. Trust a rat to have a way to leave the sinking ship. We'll remember them." He closed the door gently.
They slipped on. Above them the distant sounds of fortress life drifted through the deserted corridors, but in these depths they met no living thing. His hand checked her, hard on her soft arm.
"Beyond that. The room where Gion sat, watching me." His gun was out, the powerful slides poised and ready in his hand. "Wait here."
"I needn't," she replied, quietly. "You will not find him, Kurland."
He rounded the corner, paused. The rough wooden door of the room stood half ajar. A dim light burned above it, casting dark and mocking shadows across the worn grey stone. Somewhere a man whistled merrily, faded away into the distance.
They moved forward, silent, barefoot on the stone. He sighted on the door's edge, stepped forward abruptly. She saw him freeze, the gun lifting, then sway back, his body slowly relaxing. The blaster was hip-high, level, ruthless as the steel within his greying eyes. The door swung silently open at his touch.
Gion sat beyond the table, the leaden boxes piled beside him. One lay open, tilted carelessly upon its side, and across the gleaming surface of the table lay a tumbled heap of ruddy golden chains and bangles and massive, chiseled collars. Bright glints of white and blue and green sparkled cleanly through the twisted coils of hammered gold, but the white-hot glare the outlaw knew no longer blazed within the priceless settings.
The Jewels of Orion were ... gone.