The Service of the Sword

by David Weber

  "I think we're screwed," Mullins replied. There was an alleyway on his side, but the vans were going to have IR sensors so unless they could get underground and lose the cops on foot, they weren't getting away. "When I say 'now,' put the car in drive and jump out on my side; hopefully some of them at least will chase the car."

  "I don't think that's an option either," Rachel said as one of the two vehicle cops extracted what looked like a rocket launcher and fired at her car.

  "JESUS!" Mullins yelled, pulling open his door as the rocket slammed into the side of the vehicle.

  But instead of an explosion, there was a simple "pop" and the car shuddered in mid-air.

  "EMP round!" Rachel yelled. "Get back in the car!"

  "It's dead!" Mullins said but the sudden shudder as it lifted upward belied him. Then he was thrown backwards in his seat. "Whoooaaa!"

  Mullins had been in enough simulators to have a fair clue about how many Gs he was pulling and the little "rattletrap" car was accelerating far too quickly for its appearance.

  "Friends in low places?" he grunted.

  "My cousin's a mechanic," she hissed in reply, banking around the side of a building at the sight of blue lights in the distance. The car narrowly missed the side of the far tower, actually tapping on one of the empty flagpoles jutting out from it. "He installed an engine from an old Prague Defense Force mobile gun. It's designed to drive a mini-tank."

  "How did it survive the EMP round?" Mullins asked. "We should have been sitting on the ground!"

  "It's a military engine," she said, in a tone reserved for a not very bright four-year-old. "Ever heard of shielding?"

  He glanced behind them and winced as another police van joined the chase, slipping into the upper lane to prevent a break in that direction.

  "They're going to be tracking us on the satellites," he mentioned. "Not that it looks to matter."

  "I've got the transponder turned off," she commented. "But you're correct about them being able to track us visually. Not that it matters at the moment. But hang on."

  The traffic ahead was slowed by an air car in the center middle lane that seemed incapable of making up its mind. The driver was either old or drunk because the car was weaving a pavane up and down, crossing through the dead zones and nearly entering the lanes above and below, as well as from side to side.

  Rachel appeared not to notice, diving into the lower dead zone and accelerating towards the car fast enough to rattle the cars above and below in her wash. Just as it seemed she would hit the wandering vehicle it drifted upwards and she slid through the slot into the relatively open area ahead of it. As they blasted past, Johnny caught one brief flash of a white patch of hair and a pair of hands that clutched the steering-yoke at least six inches over the driver's head.

  Unfortunately, Rachel's maneuver placed the car in the intersection, going the wrong way. Her sudden appearance in the cross-lanes caused cars to veer in all three dimensions and windshields in at least a half dozen cars turned blue as the auto-pilots went into spastic fault-mode.

  Mullins looked back and shook his head in wonderment at the snarled mess behind them. Half the cars that had been around them were down or bouncing from side to side, the police vans had either grounded or slammed into the surrounding buildings trying to avoid various obstacles and the intersection was filled with cars on apparently random ballistic tracks.

  "You just made yourself very unpopular in this town," he commented.

  "Stuff happens," Rachel said, pulling all the way up into the control lanes and then down to avoid a slow section of traffic. "I was getting tired of Prague anyway."

  "Oh," he said as she banked through the next intersection, slammed on the brakes and turned into a mostly abandoned multistory garage. "So this isn't the first car chase you've been in, is it?"

  "No," she replied, raising the car up a story through an open hole and then spinning it to tuck neatly between a pair of rusted hover-trucks. There was nothing else on the level, but while the position gave a good view of the garage, it was nearly impossible to see the car where it sat. She quickly shut down the counter grav and then looked though the back window.

  "And now we go?" he asked. "We're out of sight; we should . . . leave. Right?"

  "Wrong," she said, looking at her watch. Outside the sound of sirens got louder and louder. There seemed to be quite a few of them.

  "They'll have picked up the signature of the engine," he pointed out. "They'll be looking all over for it."

  "You think?" she asked. She looked at her watch again and then nodded. "Time." In the distance there was a dull boom. A moment later the sirens began to fade. She leaned forward and fiddled with an almost unnoticeable knob under the dashboard then turned the car back on. It no longer throbbed or rattled.

  "Your cousin?" Mullins asked dryly.

  "He's a very good mechanic," she replied, pulling out from between the trucks and dropping back down through the hole. Turning right she pulled around a stairwell and parked beside a stripped air car. Johnny didn't recognize the model—presumably it was a preinvasion Prague design—but it was pretty and clearly made for speed.

  "Give me a hand," she said, leaning down and pulling a lever.

  Johnny shook his head as the body of the car lurched slightly then he joined her in lifting it up and away from the chassis.

  "I've really got to meet this cousin of yours," he said. The sports car body, like the clunker body, was made of lightweight plastic and dropped onto the "rattle-trap" chassis perfectly. In under thirty seconds a slightly the worse for wear sports car rocketed out of the top of the garage and into the sky.

  "My, that was refreshing," Mullins said. "Okay, Rachel, give. Your average stripper doesn't have a military grade, shielded turbine in her car. In fact, on Prague, she doesn't even have a car."

  Rachel sighed and shook her head. "I do a few things more for the resistance than I told you. I'm not an agent for them, but I do mule work and also some of what you would call 'tradecraft'; your lecture about putting a mark on a box wasn't the first time I'd heard of that. And I really do have a cousin who does conversions on vehicles; I'm the person who gets them to the resistance. And he does other work, including some sabotage. He's surveilling us and had placed a bomb on a chemical plant. When he saw us blocked in he set it off. Then the police had more important things to do than chase down a hooker who maybe had met one of the suspects they are looking for. And, of course, I'm very good friends with one of the local resistance leaders."

  "Very good friends?" he asked.

  "Is that all you can ask about?" she asked in exasperation. "If you're going to worry about each of my friends you're going to spend all your time on that subject alone. I've got a lot of friends, okay?"

  "Okay," Mullins said with a shrug. "As long as we can get you off planet before your friends can't keep you alive."

  "I've reluctantly come to the same conclusion," she said.

  "Who is this vehicle registered to?" Mullins asked as a police van swept through an intersection; it's car-comp would have automatically scanned their registration as it passed.

  "The local StateSec commander's daughter," Rachel said with a faint smile. "As long as we don't have to go through another block, we're fine."

  She pulled into another multistory car-park and placed the car in an out-of-the-way corner.

  "They were going to be tracing us as soon as they reviewed the data from the satellite," she continued, getting out of the car. "So we need to get down in the underground again."

  CHAPTER 7

  If It's Stupid and It Works, It's Not Stupid

  Johnny looked at the walls of the fumed wood elevator and shook his head. "Where, exactly, are we going?"

  The travel from the abandoned car had been short, which in general was not a good idea. They had exited the car-park in the basement, gone through a few tunnels and then entered the elevator in another basement. This one had been packed with the usual sort of industrial laundry machin
es found in hotels. But if this was a hotel, it was much more upscale than anything Mullins had previously found on Prague.

  "This was the VIP quarters for visiting Legislaturalists," Rachel said. "It's since been taken over by StateSec for pretty much the same use."

  "You mean, we're in a StateSec building?" Gonzalvez snapped. "Are you insane, woman?"

  "No," she said. "I have an apartment here."

  Mullins tensed for a moment then decided to let her live. "Why?"

  "Why do you think, Johnny?" she replied as the doors opened. "Let's just say I'm . . . maintained in it by a local StateSec officer."

  "And if he decides to just drop by?" the admiral asked. "We're to hide in the closet, yes?"

  "He won't be dropping by," Rachel replied. "He's off-planet at the moment. And everyone knows why he has the apartment, but not for whom, and he's the deputy commander for Prague. So they're not going to be questioning his mistress. Not if they want to stay off of Hades. And if you have a better idea where to hide you, I'm open to suggestions."

  There wasn't time for any as the doors opened on the corridor. Rachel stuck her head out then gestured right. A short distance led them to a door that opened at her passkey.

  The apartment was large and airy, two story with the main hall rising to the full height with a balcony overlooking it. There was a mural on one wall depicting a pastoral scene along the Prague River and furniture that looked to be mostly Old Earth antiques. A brief tour, conducted by Charles on a careful sweep for any detection equipment, revealed similar luxury throughout including a jacuzzi, a shower area large enough for a platoon of drunken Marines, a sunken bathtub, a collection of "adult novelties" that was practically a store in itself and a shower-massage.

  "Why a shower massage?" he asked when he got back to the overstocked kitchen.

  "I have to have something for myself," Rachel pointed out. She was making a sandwich which consisted of two pieces of bread, a pile of alfalfa spouts and a half a bottle of hot sauce marked with a skull and crossbones. As soon as it was done she stuffed the entire load in her mouth.

  "M g'ung sh'er," she mumbled, then cleared enough space to talk. "Nobody should come to the door. If they do, we're screwed. If there's so much as a knock, alert everyone and head out the window."

  "I'll slip some tell-tales out the door," Charles said. He gestured at her open mouth. "Unless you know something I don't, the Peeps don't normally sweep in high microwave range."

  "No, that's okay," she said after a moment. "Just don't get caught."

  "They're self mobile," Gonzalvez replied.

  "Next dibs on the shower," Mullins said, taking a bite of the sandwich. "This is really wimpy hot sauce."

  Rachel laughed and gestured around. "Raid as you wish. I'm not planning on coming back and it's less than my pig of a boyfriend deserves." With that she walked out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.

  "As long as everything's there tomorrow, we're set," Charles said. "Of course, something will go wrong. But I intend to worry about that tomorrow."

  "I don't suppose . . . ?" Mládek asked, lifting the bottle of wine.

  "Go ahead," Mullins replied. "Just don't get so drunk you can't move."

  "Well, say what you will about her boyfriend," Gonzalvez said from the depths of the refrigerator, "but he has excellent taste." He leaned out and flourished a jar. "Arellian caviar, Nagasaki shrimps in wine sauce and New Provence compote."

  "A going away party," the admiral said with a sad smile. "I suppose it's appropriate."

  "Just don't party too hard," Mullins replied.

  "The condemned man ate a hearty meal," Charles said. "I'm surprised you're eating as well as you are, frankly."

  "Why worry about it?" Mullins replied. "You guys go, I'll keep my head down and eventually we'll make contact again."

  "Sure, easy," Gonzalvez replied.

  "I'm not planning on being here in the morning," Mullins said, taking another bite of sandwich.

  "Cutting out early?" Mládek asked. "Don't get yourself picked up and blow our cover."

  "I won't," Johnny replied. "I'll probably take the window exit. Anyway, I thought you should know."

  "Well, I would have known anyway," Charles replied. "I laced that as well as the door."

  "Just as well," Johnny said, finishing off his sandwich. "I'm planning on having another beer and maybe a few of those fish-eggs on toast."

  "It's caviar, you Gryphon barbarian," Gonzalvez said.

  "Sure, sure," Johnny replied, picking up a canister of caviar and scooping some out with a finger. "This isn't too bad. Any potato chips around?"

  John opened up the door to the closet in case there was anything that fit. He was willing to put on the sweaty prole outfit he had been running around in but if there was anything a tad cleaner it would be nice. He hadn't been able to ask Rachel after her shower because she had yelled that it was free and then disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

  As it turned out Rachel's mysterious boyfriend had plenty of clothes. He appeared to be a bit on the hefty side compared to the Manty but there was one suit that looked to be Mullins' size.

  Johnny contemplated it balefully for a moment then dropped his towel and tried on the shirt. It fit. So did the cummerbund and pants.

  He looked in the mirror and sighed.

  "Okay, I guess there have to be some studs around here somewhere."

  When he came down from the shower he felt a bit better about his outfit; Rachel had changed into an electric blue Beowulf pantaloon set. The material was semitransparent, responding oddly to reflected light; when the light was shining directly at it the material was opaque, but in shadow or with glancing light patches it would go completely transparent. As she moved it revealed and covered seemingly at random, always covering far more than it revealed. Try as he might, Mullins couldn't determine if she was wearing a cat-suit underneath or absolutely nothing at all.

  It was frankly hypnotic and went remarkably well with the archaic tuxedo that was the sole clothing Mullins could find that fit.

  "Well, aren't you the pair?" Gonzalvez said with a laugh.

  "I thought that might work for you," Rachel said, lifting a glass of champagne in his direction. "I picked it up for Bonz hoping he could get it around his fat middle. No such luck."

  "Well, it fits," Mullins admitted, shooting the cuffs and rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. "But I'd rather be wearing prole clothes; if we have to run this is going to stick out like a sore thumb."

  "Well then, we'll just have to avoid making a run for it," Rachel replied, handing him a glass of champagne. "To a flawless escape," she said, raising the glass.

  "To a flawless escape," Mullins replied tapping his glass to hers and taking a sip. "That ain't half bad."

  "It's an excellent vintage," Mládek said reaching past for a glass. He was back in his own prole outfit and still drying his hair. He took a sip and sighed. "I'll miss New Rochelle grapes."

  "You should try some of the Copper Ridge sparkling wines," Charles responded, working the wine around in his mouth. "This seems a tad raw."

  "Raw? New Rochelle's one of the finest vintages known!" Mládek responded hotly.

  "I think we can leave them to this," Rachel said. "I seem to remember that you actually can dance."

  "Well, my mother never admitted that I had gotten any good at it," Mullins said, as he set down the glass. "But mom had two left feet."

  "Darling, your only problem as a dancer is that you're too tall and refuse to follow where I lead," Rachel said, her hips thrusting from side to side.

  "You took the words right out of my mouth," Mullins replied, completing a complicated twist that ended with his ankles locked behind hers and his hips following her in time. "When did you learn to suvala?"

  The had been dancing for over two hours, the tunes segueing through a dozen styles. From the mirror-dance to the minuet, from the suvala to the Hyper-Puma Trot, the two of them had been trying to best each other. Rachel wa
s far and away the more natural dancer, but Mullins, if anything, knew more styles and was more precise in each.

  "I know a girl from New Brazil," she replied, her lips inches from his cheek.

  "You know this dance is illegal on Grayson?" he asked in a whisper, leaning in to her ear, his hips grinding against hers.

  "Silly people," she husked back then disengaged. "Charles? Admiral? We're going to bed."

  "Ah, really?" Charles asked. "So soon? The Admiral and I were just about to come to a conclusion in regards to the superiority of the Tancre strain of grape bacterium."

  "I'm afraid not, old boy," Mládek replied. "Dautit is still the superior bacteria."

  "But only for higher sugar content! My God man . . ."

  "No, I mean we're going to bed; you guys can stay up as long as you'd like."

  "Oh."

  "Since you're sacrificing yourself for me tomorrow, it seemed the least I could do," she said, taking John's arm.

  "Well, I'd get all huffy," Mullins replied. "But what the hell; take what you can while you can get it is my motto."

  "See if you get anything with a motto like that," she said with a chuckle.

  But she relented after suitable persuasion.

  Mullins rolled over and patted the bed beside him then opened his eyes to a pallid dawn light.

  Rachel was gone.

  "Charley?" he called, rolling to his feet and grabbing his head. "Ooooo."

  "I see you're bloody up," Gonzalvez said, staggering in the door. "I think your girlfriend slipped us a mickey. According to my sensor logs she slipped out the window about three A.M. local time. Of course, I was sleeping the sleep of the dead."

  "Blast," Mullins snarled. "Probably that damned champagne."

  "I thought it was a tad bitter," Charles said.

  "All the gear is set up for her. I still can't get off-planet!"

  "Oh, I don't know about that," Mládek said, entering the room with a large package in his hands. "This was on top of my clothes."