by Bill Adams
“Which will be…the second farthest?” Wongama suggested.
“One of the closest,” I said. “Something within walking distance of here, I think.”
“Yes, the big shaft is the only practical exit to the surface,” Foyle agreed. “No point in getting too far away from it. And the sooner we’re off the transport, the better. In case they figure out how to shut it down.”
“How about the cemetery, then?” Hogg-Smythe asked.
Foyle looked through the window dubiously. “I suppose it’s not too close. And as a park stop, it would give us a clear view of the elevated tubes. Yes.”
“Okay,” I said, “do it. Piet will decide what buttons to push, Foyle will go to the cemetery first to find good cover and organize arrivals. Ken, someone has to leave last; it should be someone who knows how to take care of himself.”
He nodded sharply. “Of course. But aren’t you coming with us?”
Ariel, standing before the local elevator to the transport terminal, looked back at this, those bright blue eyes locked on my face.
“No,” I said. “I have to stay behind. We’re not guerrillas. We can’t fight our way out, and we can’t hide forever, without food or information. I’ll conceal myself here, get behind them, and use the elevator to go for help. Piet, write down the clear-codes and the up-code for me.”
“You won’t get the chance,” Foyle argued. “And even if you did, there’s no radio on the surface—”
“Remember the recon satellites—I can start a brushfire or something to attract their attention. Even if I can’t get back up, I’ll be in a position to overhear the mercenaries when they come through, get a line on their plans; then I’ll try to rejoin you. At least this way you’ll be waiting for something.”
“I have another suggestion,” said Ken Mishima. “Talk with them. The Iron Brotherhood is a major labor union. It can’t afford to murder Column officials.”
“But it can make them disappear,” Foyle snapped. “Especially in a semiautonomous zone like the Blue Swathe. Mercenaries play politics in the fringes all the time; I’ve seen them work. But yes, we probably should save you to bargain with, Commissioner, as a last resort. Ken or I should stay behind instead.”
Ariel had returned to my side. She was not the only one who appeared to agree with Foyle’s suggestion, or Mishima’s. But both were predicated on the notion that I was a real Column official, and mercenaries hired by Condé would know I wasn’t.
“The time has come to tell you the truth,” I said. “As some of you may have suspected, I’m not a regular sub-commissioner of non-human artifacts.”
Almost everyone nodded at that, which irked me, but I plowed ahead regardless: “I have a broader assignment than that. Certain political duties, which I am not at liberty to discuss. But negotiations with these people are out of the question. Half our ten minutes are gone. I expect you all to start following orders.”
And they began moving out. Piet handed me the elevator codes, on a scrap of paper from some notebook of Lagado’s.
“But where will you hide?” Ariel asked.
“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” I said—each new lie coming a little easier—and she stood on tiptoe to kiss me lightly on the lips. Foyle, the last to go, looked on with a crooked smile.
“I thought you were an agent of some sort. But no matter how good you are, without a weapon…”
“There’s something in that backpack of yours that might help,” I said. “Turn around and let me get at the chemicals.”
She obliged me, but said, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. If you’re thinking of the acids, they’re too dilute.”
But I removed one chunky vial and closed the padded box. “Just take care of our friends.” We were alone now. “And don’t be so sure they can’t take care of you. There’s plenty of brains and guts there.”
“You can trust me,” she said. “I wish I could say I…Oh, well. Luck.”
◆◆◆
Around the bend of the corridor, the lake-elevator door slid open with a slight hiss. A storm of footsteps pattered from the same direction, becoming more resonant as it burst upon the statue chamber.
Commands rang out, curt and rapid, but almost bored in tone. Someone reported from the picture window that cars could be seen moving through the transport tubes, and someone else acknowledged the fact without apparent interest. Ten minutes passed.
Then I heard two voices from the foreground, bass and tenor—and usually opposed to each other, so I labeled them Pro and Contra:
Pro: “Well, we had our chance to take them clean, and your corporal blew it. Doesn’t matter, though.”
Contra: “Stupid bastard walked into the line of fire.”
Pro: “I said it doesn’t matter. All we needed from Velasquez was the senator’s arrival date, and he gave me that last night, in the woods. He was always supposed to be expendable afterwards. Like the other white suit.”
Contra: “The other one is ours, too? Then why did he smash the platform cameras?”
Pro: “Condé never trusted him with the real story.”
Contra: “Lucky him.”
Pro: “Are you going to start up again? Wait.”
Another flurry of orders: all the lake-platform stops to be guarded, best available weapons, shoot-on-sight protocols; and the local elevators in the statue chamber to be checked out, too, destinations determined, one man to stay behind and watch for enemy attempts to return. Then more footsteps, dying away.
I lay flat again. Some of the mercenaries would be crossing the high waist of the spherical chamber, where the corridor joined it, and that was the only angle from which I might be seen. But my own restricted view, of little except the ceiling, reassured me that I had been right; the bronze figure group was just high enough to make a blind spot where I lay, atop the high marble base and between the two rows of heroic cable-couplers.
Another ten minutes, and then a quieter room. The crisp pacing of a single sentry in front of the side doors. And Pro and Contra again, their voices low.
Pro: “It would have been neater if we’d smeared them here, but there’s still no problem.”
Contra: “No problem? Our base is blown, and the senator is arriving months ahead of schedule. Condé’s left us screwed.”
Pro: “You’re not thinking straight. The base isn’t blown until those professors report back, and they never will. According to what Velasquez said last night, no one even expects to hear from them for a week or two. So the senator’s arriving just in time, before anyone comes looking. Now listen. While you were trapped on Null, Juan flashed down confirmation to the forest watch. It’s okay. He has all the codes and passwords for the orbital defenses, and he and Phil have wangled so much comm duty there’ll be no trouble getting back to them; he says he can disable the message boats on two hours’ notice. And I can’t see the ground assault taking more than a few hours; then we can lift the spare construction shuttles into orbit and mop up there. So there’ll be no problem about welcoming the senator a few days later with all the right codes. He won’t suspect a thing.”
Contra: “If some of the orbital guys shoot it out, the damage will be visible from space.”
Pro: “So there’s been an accident during construction. The senator won’t turn back over that. And once we have him, our problems are half over. This is his private retreat. No one will come disturb him. If necessary we can get him to write some messages out—we’ve got a couple pilots who can deliver them—and postpone any visits he’s expecting. Only a month or two of covering up that way, and then we can hand the whole mess over to Condé’s bunch to proceed with as planned; the client can make his own kill, and no one will even know the Brotherhood was involved.”
Contra: “If Condé can deliver! If not—”
Pro: “If not, we still have two hundred troops stuck here without transportation. You carry on as if we have a choice, Jacques, but Condé’s our only way out. At least I’ll be
able to show the union a profit on the deal.”
Contra: “We should have had a field representative come in the first time Condé changed the contract. ‘Guard duty’!”
Pro: “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I did try. It’s on record that we sent back word. Now all we can do is our best. Like not shooting our own people in the fucking throat.”
Contra: “Bows don’t have scan sights and arrows don’t have lock-ons. I always said we should break out the real weapons.”
Pro: “For what? Eight months without resupply, and I’m supposed to risk taking fine-tuned A-rifles through that electromagnetic pulse?”
Contra: “We could’ve shielded one crateload. And if we had, those civilians wouldn’t be running around loose now.”
Pro: “So? They’ve got no arms, no food, and no other exits to the surface. The platform is guarded. Let the professors starve or come crawling. They won’t be missed, not in time.”
Contra: “But suppose they are? Can’t you at least move up the schedule?”
Pro: “I just got the arrival date last night. The way I see it, I have one week to make a professional op out of it, and I’m going to use every minute. Even if the senator arrives early, we can take him on the ground the day after—hell, it might work better that way.”
Contra: “And just suppose one of the satellites gets a warning first, four or five six days from now, some time when Juan or Phil isn’t on comm duty to intercept it?”
Pro: “You’re like an old woman, you know that?”
Contra: “Patch, patch, patch. Every new disaster, you put another patch in the master plan, but it would take just one hint of danger from this system, and that senator will arrive with a Column navy escort and six brigades of marines—the navy will back the Consultant, if they get the chance. Just one of those archaeologists popping up anywhere on the surface and signaling a satellite, and we’re screwed. And there is another way to reach the surface from here. It’s in the post description.”
Pro: “I know what you’re talking about. But you can’t be serious. You think those women and children are going to—”
Contra: “Exploring places like this is their business. And after seeing Velasquez buy the farm, you think they don’t know their lives depend on it? You’re crazy if you don’t let me try to round them up first.”
Pro: “And you’re crazy if you think I’ll clock it as combat pay. But what the hell. I’m tired of having you in my ear. I’ll let you have everyone who’s on report, that’s twenty guys, and the extra hunting equipment. And take Principato, too.”
Contra: “I don’t want him. I know everybody thinks he’s hot shit—Sergeant Superman. But he can’t control himself. Would have grabbed that redheaded piece right out of her tent, if I hadn’a stopped him.”
Pro: “Well, now he can have her, can’t he? You motivate him, and he’s like three extra guys. Not that we’re undermanned anyway, I could take that construction camp with forty troops if I had to, so spend all the time you want…Look, it’s your fantasy, not mine. I don’t even see where you’d start.”
Contra: “The post description has all the dope on the other exit to the surface. It’s a roundabout route, I remember that…”
Pro: “All right, all right, let’s check it out…”
It would have been the only thing I really needed to know. But now they walked away. The lake-elevator door hissed open and shut again a moment later.
I’d heard enough, however. There would be no sneaking or bargaining my way back to the surface. I’d be lucky if I could just rejoin the others. And how had I come to be that quintessential boob, the hero on the monument? Partly, it had been the fear of what Foyle or Mishima might find out about me in this position—and I’d been right about that—but mainly, inexcusably, it had been the costume and the limelight and the women looking on.
Below and off to the side, the sentry clopped back and forth.
I had one edge, the vial in my hand. Foyle was bright and tough, but like most people she saw only the labels of things—not the heavy glass, good for hitting with, or what was once called the “spirit” of the fluid inside. But I would need the advantage of surprise, too, and I’d have to work close up. As I pondered this, the sentry’s footsteps changed course, suddenly louder, nearer.
I could tell he’d entered the ring of statues, but then I heard the creak of one of the swivel chairs and relaxed. Of course. What’s guard duty without a place to sit? I slowly raised my head to look down at him. A slow peek is actually less likely to draw attention than a quick one—the quick and clever die young, but tortoises live two hundred years—and no problem, he was watching the side doors anyway, a cocked and loaded crossbow resting on his knee.
The merc was a man of average height, heavy but not flabby, powerful-looking. His head was bare, so bald that one of the green forest caps would have slipped right off it. His face was slack, but the small dark eyes looked sharp and observant.
I didn’t care about those side doors, however. The local elevator I wanted stood elsewhere, to one side of the picture window, hidden from the guard’s view behind the tall pedestal I was lying on. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get down without giving myself away. I’d climbed up by way of footholds that were now well within his field of vision, and the blind side was a straight drop. But I had no choice, and no reason to wait.
I slowly wriggled between a pair of bronze feet, toward the side of the monument farthest from the guard and facing the elevator. By the time I’d got the length of my body clear, parallel to the top edge of the pedestal, the swivel chair creaked again, loudly. Had he heard something? Was he on his feet? There was nothing to do but make sure the cork on the vial was almost loose, roll sideways, snatch at the pedestal’s edge just long enough to swing my feet down first, and then let go entirely. Free fall, and the floor coming up to hit me.
Chapter Thirteen
It was a five- or six-meter drop in stiff boots—but the knees bent just right, a half-bounce, and I didn’t even have to shoulder-roll, just stand up. Lucky, because the guard came around the side of the monument with unbelievable speed for a man of his bulk. But he didn’t know what to expect and I did; I took that split second to thumb the cork out of the vial and throw the contents in his face.
To Foyle it was just the cleanser she’d used on old gold, but imagine straight ammonia in your eyes and nose—
The bald merc gave a high-pitched incredulous noise, blinded and choking. His trigger finger tightened convulsively and the crossbow bolt whickered up to rebound off the ceiling. I ran five steps and hit the button next to the elevator, but the door didn’t open; the car was on some other level, and it had been a mistake not to reach in and bash him with the heavy vial when it might have been easy.
I was on him again in a second. He was blind, all right—he couldn’t open his eyes to the burning air and hissed in pain when he tried—but he heard my approach, and the chunk of glass in my hand passed harmlessly over his head as he lurched forward to butt me hard in the stomach. I fell back half-stunned. He got in a good kick before losing contact with me, then snatched a bolt from his bandolier and loaded his weapon as if in the dark.
He was too good, too game, but I heard the cushioned clump of the elevator arriving, regained my feet, and reached the doors just as they opened. The interior was palely lit.
Another mercenary stood inside, staring at me, one hand on the button panel and the other cradling what I thought was called a “shotgun.”
He was as surprised as I, his gunpowder antique aimed at the floor. He jerked back, the cocked weapon swinging up, as I sidestepped. And then a breeze moved past me with a noise like a scythe in tall grass and the shotgunner’s upper body kicked backward, a crossbow bolt in his chest. I half jumped, half fell, and twisted back to see Baldy squinting after his shot—whether he’d had a glimpse of me framed in light, or had just gone by the sound of the doors, I’ll never know.
There was an e
xplosion within the elevator, the gunpowder weapon going off as it fell onto the tips of its barrels, and the discharge sent it cartwheeling through the air past me to clatter and skate across the floor. Baldy fell back several paces, his face screwed up against these incomprehensible noises as he reloaded his crossbow by feel. I dove across the tiles for the gun, scooped it up and rolled sideways into a passable one-knee infantry crouch, aimed, and pulled both triggers.
Nothing happened—I’d feared it, both barrels had fired—but I’d had my luck, and couldn’t count on more. The fat man had a bolt ready for the slot but hadn’t drawn yet, and I crossed the five meters between us in two bounds, gripping the gun like a bat by its twin barrels and swinging its stock at his head.
He saw or heard enough to bring the crossbow up to block. Our misused weapons met with the dull clunk of someone chopping firewood for the first time. Now we hacked at each other as if with broadswords, dancing in a tight circle, grunting and swearing as we struck. I had the advantage of clear sight, but the bow was lighter and handier than the heavy gun. I managed to deliver one blow to the face, smashing Baldy’s nose sideways and opening a cut above one eye to leave him blinder than ever, but meanwhile—intentionally or not—he outmaneuvered me. Crouching and swinging from squarely in front of the still-open elevator, he’d cut off my line of retreat.
I lunged, overbalanced, and missed him clean. It brought me to my senses. I throttled my gasping, did a soft-shoe backward, and by so doing disappeared from Baldy’s lightless world.
His features were already too twisted to register emotion, but I could see panic in the next few jerky swings of the half-smashed bow through empty air. His stance shifted nervously as he awaited attack from an unknown direction. I was still too fired up to pity the poor bastard, but I felt a flash of multifarious disgust, as if at a bearbaiting—and then the elevator doors began to close. Baldy whirled at the unexpected noise behind him and I stepped forward and clubbed the back of his head.
